


dance in your blood.

by pennyproud



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Mentions of the Regent, and added a whole new chapter, ballet laurent, edited the chapters changed the chapter names and quotes, high school of the arts, i got this together y'all, im basically neurotypical now, this is like 10k longer lmfao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyproud/pseuds/pennyproud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rules were always the same, in ballet. There was right and wrong and no in betweens and that was the way Laurent liked life to be.</p><p>Which is why Damen presented such a problem when they met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pt i: dance in your blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laurent is called bugs because he wanted to be a bunny & he's called wilbur bc he snorts like the pig from charlotte's webb when he laughs. auguste loves obscure nicknames sue him. trigger warnings in the end notes!

“ _dance when you’re broken open. dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. dance in the middle of the fighting._ _ **dance in your blood.**_ _dance when you’re perfectly free.”_

— _rumi._

_-_

Laurent had always been the best. That was just one of the facts of life; Auguste was good at math, fall came before winter, and Laurent was the best dancer in the city.

“It’s a small city,” His Uncle had said one day. “Don’t get a big head.”

(“Fuck that.” Auguste had said to Laurent in the country club’s bathroom right after. “You’re the fucking best, Lau. Fuck anyone who wants you to be any less.”)

And Laurent had loved dancing. When he was little, his mother used to tell him stories about angels dancing ballet, how their turns made stars and how they had wings on their feet, too.

When a stray bullet caught his gentle father’s heart, he danced. When his Mother died, he danced. When Auguste moved out, he danced. When his Uncle moved in, he danced. The rules were always the same, in ballet. There was right and wrong and no in-betweens and that was the way Laurent wished his life to be.

Which is why Damen presented such a problem when they met.

Damen was art, beautiful in a way that made you miss home, soft to look at and impossible to touch. He was water, grey from paints, and he was clay, a blank slate ready to become whatever you needed him to be.

Laurent first sees him when he drops Jokaste’s jacket off during second hour. It’s a turn day (the worst days, in Laurent’s opinion) and he should look out of place against the muted colors of the studio, but he doesn’t. That’s the first time Laurent realizes Damen always looks like he belongs, like God put the stars in the sky just to hang over his head.

After that, Laurent finds out his name. (His schedule, too, but he flushes at the piece of paper and shoves it into his locker. What would he even do with that? “Oh, hey, it’s me, Laurent, remember when we never met?”)

Damianos Akielon. It’s not a rough name, but it’s thick on Laurent’s tongue. He says it over and over until it sounds right. He’ll introduce himself, one day.

Maybe.

—

The first time they meet, Laurent sees him in the reflection in the mirror as he performs, and almost trips over his own feet.

(Almost. The boy may be a work of art, but Laurent is still the best dancer in the city.)

The music ends, and Laurent’s entire body is burning, but he whips around and squints his eyes at the older boy. “Can I help you?” He tries not to let his voice sound unsteady, but his chest is heaving wildly.

Damianos smiles widely. “You’re beautiful.” He states, like it’s a fact. Laurent flushes and grinds the point of his shoe into the worn wood of the school’s dance studio. The other dancers have lined up around the room, waiting to go across the floor.

“I messed up my pirouettes,” Laurent replies, almost silent, his head still facing the ground. He isn’t really sure why he says it, but it seems to come out easily when he knows Damen is the only one listening.

“Nothing about that–nothing about you is messy,” Damen answers airily, like this was something he often said to people he had just met. Laurent blushes again, despite himself, and looks over to see his teacher’s annoyed face. He got some leniency, because he was the best, but ballet teachers were still ballet teachers.

“Don’t you—” Laurent stops that train of thought before it begins. “Go to class, Damianos.” He finishes, trying to be dismissive but just sounding embarrassed.

The brown boy raises an eyebrow and smiles so bright it almost blinds Laurent. “How do you know my name, ballerina?”

This time, Laurent decides it’s in his best interests to just line up for the combination than to reply to the art major that has, somehow, taken over his life.

—

They see a lot more of each other, that week. “I’m starting to think you’re skipping class to see me, Damianos.” Laurent snarks after he finds Damen watching him once again.

“Damen.” The artist replies, before rushing to explain. “You can call me Damen.”

“I’m sure I could, _Damianos,”_ Laurent replies, stressing his full name. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“I didn’t know dance majors knew how to have fun,” Damen answers sarcastically. Laurent raises an eyebrow. He’s still taken aback by Damen’s ability to keep up with him, sometimes.

“Oh, no, they do, but not me.” This time Damen raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard? I’m frigid.” Laurent remarks drily. There’s a moment where Damen processes what he’s said, and becomes startlingly glad he’s too dark to blush.

“I–I didn’t mean–” He starts to recover, but is stopped by the weight of Laurent’s foot in his lap.

“Pointe work is next.” A pause. “Attend me.” Laurent continues, like he shouldn’t have had to say anything at all. The presence of Laurent’s skin, soft and milky, so close to Damen’s own is...overwhelming, to say the least. Damen lets his eyes wander from Laurent’s ankles, small and elegant, to his calves, strong but still gentle, to his thighs, toned and beautiful. He wonders how they feel, underneath his thumbs, while Laurent is saying his name and– “Please.” Laurent grits out, drawing Damen back to reality.

Laurent looks at his face as he picks up the ribbons. The afternoon sun, streaming in and making the harshness of the hallway soft, letting the dust float in the air like flower petals, makes Damen look like an angel, the glow of outdoors coming around his crown of unruly curls, his ears (which are somehow splattered with paint) fuzzy around the edges from being swallowed in the light.

Laurent looks away.

Damen should, truthfully, be in his own wing of the school, not carefully crossing pink ribbons over Laurent’s ankle, but here he was.

When they were thirteen and Jokaste had finally been eligible for pointe class, him and her had watched countless videos on how to care for your pointe shoes, how to break them in and tie them and blah blah blah. By now, the bow in the back and the tightness of the string comes like second nature to him.

(Without meaning to, he had tied a loose string around his finger in the same way at his father’s funeral. He closes his eyes at the thud of the casket against the dirt.)

He looks up when he’s done with both feet, afraid to push them off his lap for fear they’ll never be there again. Laurent looks surprised at how good he did, and Damen can’t stop himself from giggling.

Damen’s laugh sounds right, in gentle moments like this. (It always sounds right, to Laurent, but especially now, when everything seems like a frozen photo.) “I am known for being good with my hands, ballerina.” Damen jokes, wiggling his clay and paint-stained fingers through the air. (Which is technically true. Damen is the darling of the art department.)

Laurent blushes and pulls his feet off Damen’s lap as the bell rings. “Go to class, Damianos.” He replies, rushing into the studio and refusing to look back for fear of embarrassing himself again.

—

Laurent can’t seem to escape Damen’s clutches after that, but not in a way that makes Laurent’s chest tighten, like being on a witness stand or sleeping in the same bed as a man whose face he has scratched out from memories. In a way that made it feel like Laurent was the tail of a dog, always being chased and mostly elusive, except, sometimes, Damen managed to chomp down on him.

Like now, in the hallway after school, Laurent closes his locker a little harder than he means to. He’s angry, because he loves Erasmus but if the boy messes up the combination one more time Laurent is going to snap his fucking neck, but the noise makes the blond flinch a little, even as he grits his teeth to try and stop the reaction. He stares at his closed locker for a moment, in a way that means he’s forgotten a part of himself somewhere. He closes his eyes like his therapist taught him too, retraces his steps, and picks the pieces of himself back up. A bad day is not a bad life, he chants in his head. The sound of something as heavy as a very young or extremely elderly cow falling against the lockers next to him makes his eyes snap open, and he is face to face with Damen, again. He feels himself being chased, again.

He’s not sure if it’s a feeling he entirely hates.

“Damianos,” He greets curtly, turning in the opposite of direction. Vannes is waiting for him in her car on the side of the school, and he really doesn’t have time to hear her complain about how he’s always late even though she’s, like, his only friend. Damen laughs and moves to keep up with Laurent’s brisk steps. Laurent’s legs are sore from practice, but he doesn’t let it show just to spite Damen, even though he knows he’s not really spiting anyone.

“Laurent,” Damen replies, amusement evident. “I see you’re in a rush. Do you catch the bus? I could give you a ride home and save you the sprint.” Laurent’s pace has increased significantly, to the point where people around him are looking at the two of them strangely.

“No, thank you, Vannes is driving me home.”

“Oh, Vannes? Creative writing girl? Is she your friend?” Laurent stops abruptly at the end of the hallway in front of the side doors and takes something very close to joy in seeing Damen fumble to a stop at the abrupt halt Laurent had made.

“Damianos—”

“Damen,”

“Whoever you are, please do not concern yourself with who I am and am not friends with. This is your first official warning from management.” At this, Damen smiles, almost laughs, and has something dancing in his eyes that makes Laurent want to write his name over and over in the corner of his Math notebook (which he totally had not done, fuck you). “Thank you.”

Damen doesn’t falter as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. “In case there are any other official warnings.” Then, he has the audacity to _saunter_ away, like this is a GAP ad with SZA playing in the background and not a Midwestern high school hallway. He looks so out of place, and yet, he seems to belong more than anyone Laurent’s ever known.

(That night, unable to focus on the Math he hadn’t been paying attention to in class, Laurent stares at the front pocket of his backpack, where he had shoved the piece of paper gifted to him before Vannes could ask. After a long moment and a few taps of his pen against the light wash of the wood, Laurent pulls out the paper, carefully examining the outside for booby traps before unfolding it.

It’s a sketch of him, or, seven sketches of him, mostly looking annoyed, the blue of his eyes splashed lazily with watercolor. At the bottom, there’s a little drawing of Laurent in a heart, and his name is written so, _so_ carefully across the top. He traces his fingers over all the times Damen had erased, over all the lines that he deemed weren’t worthy enough of Laurent’s name. Something bubbles in his stomach as he regards the phone number scribbled onto the bottom of the page, as if Damen had decided to do it last minute and folded the paper quickly so he wouldn’t go back and erase it.

Something strange in Laurent stirs, and he briefly compares the way Damen had written his name with the way he had written Damen’s before adding Damen’s number to his phone. He doesn’t text it.)

-

Laurent, his voice as indifferent as he can make it, states that there’s some art major who wants to be his friend when they’re sitting down to dinner the next day. (The paper Damen gave him is buried under all the books on Laurent’s desk.) “I think it’ll be good for you, Lau.” Auguste offers, reaching over for one of Nicaise’s fries and being quickly swatted away. “Some inspiration for dance.”

“I’m plenty inspired.” Laurent objects, crossing his arms and taking a sip from his straw.

At this, Auguste stops his antics and regards his other brother for a long moment. “Lau, when you were little–” Auguste starts, putting on his _I’m-a-serious-big-bro-who-cares-about-you_ voice. Laurent holds up his hand before his brother can even start.

“God, I’ll do it.” Auguste raises an eyebrow. “Anything to get out of a When You Were Young speech,” Laurent explains, narrowing his eyes. Auguste hums in approval, turning to ask Nicaise how his day was. Laurent starts drowning them out and then pulls out his phone.

 

**laurent [1 million heart emojis]**

_hey._

 

**damianos [art emoji, cow emoji]**

_hey!!!_

 

Laurent tries not to smile. Three exclamation points?

 

**laurent**

_uh so did you still wanna like_

_hang out or whatever_

 

**damianos**

_yeah!!!!_

_just lmk when you’re free!_

_i know ballet keeps u [sixth grade jokaste vc] supes biz_

 

Laurent feels a tickle of laughter tease his throat, and coughs into his hand instead. Nicaise raises an eyebrow and Laurent gives him an unamused stare to avoid any Nicaise Classics™, such as “Is that your _maaaan,_ Saint Laurent?”

Laurent looks back down at his screen. He wishes that Damen wouldn’t be so considerate. It would certainly make hatred much easier.

 

**laurent**

_i might need a ride? i only have half of saturday, i have to do a family thing sunday._

 

(Every Sunday, they light candles for Auguste and Laurent’s parents and Auguste makes them burn sage all through the house. “Too much darkness builds up in a week,” The oldest brother always says. Nicaise woke up screaming again last night. Laurent climbs a ladder to burn some into the highest point of his room.)

 

**damianos**

_oh, coolcoolcool !!_

_i got the car that day we gucci_

_uhhh i don’t usually say gucci_

 

**laurent**

_cool._

_(and it’s fine. #FreeGucci, right?)_

 

**damianos**

**[laughing emoji]** _right._

—

Laurent has never expected to be one of the trashy dancers who get picked up after practice by their boyfriends before they even get a chance to change. And, he reasons, he hasn’t really become one of those, because Damen isn’t his boyfriend.

But the honking horn and the big, red monstrosity disguised as a pickup truck isn’t exactly convincing the other people in his company of the same thing. “Stop,” He whispers harshly as he nears the car, and Damen smiles brightly.

“Hello, sunshine!” Damen replies, getting out the car to open the door for Laurent. The step up is a bit much for the blond’s short legs, and Damen pushes him forward and into the truck with a supportive hand on the small of his back, dangerously close to his ass. Laurent tells himself that this will be the only time he blushes this whole day.

Damen starts the car and classical music turns on. Laurent fights the urge to giggle and knits his eyebrows together. “You do know that...You know ballet dancers don’t have to listen to classical in their free time, right?” Damen smiles.

“I know. I just figured you were one of the ones who did.” And just like that, Damen makes Laurent break the promise he made to himself only seconds earlier.

The drive is blurry, to Laurent. It’s like he’s in the eye of a hurricane, and the only thing keeping him from being another piece of the debris flying past their windows is Damen, grounding even in his silent presence.

Before he knows it, they’ve parked right next to the underside of a bridge, the tip of the truck emerged in the shade of the underpass. “Laurent.” A voice whispers, reaching out to shake his shoulder. The blond slowly comes to life, wiping the sleep out of his eyes and rising from where he’s slumped against the window pane.

Damen feels a rise of a new emotion in the pit of his stomach, like warm bread was baking inside of him. “We’re here.” He whispers to Laurent, who’s up and stretching out in the truck’s cabin.

“Why are we whispering,” Laurent whispers back, looking around. His voice is groggy from sleep and Damen laughs. The dancer doesn’t have time to hide the look of fondness that passes over his features.

“C’mon,” Damen says, reaching to help Laurent out of the truck. Laurent is still too tired to care about anything other than the feeling of Damen’s skin on his and laces their fingers together for a brief moment as he jumps down from the truck. They’re closer than he thought they would be, but the heat of Damen, even in the blazing afternoon sun, is okay with Laurent.

Underneath the bridge, there are 10 or 15 swings, all made out of recycled tires. Laurent’s never seen something like it, and he turns to look back at Damen, to see him smiling expectantly. “Pretty cool, eh?” Laurent scoffs and turns back around.

“It’s alright, pretty boy.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Damen asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up.”

—

“No, seriously! How can any of us be free when Gucci isn’t?!” Damen exclaims as Laurent giggles into his hand.

“That’s _such_ an artist thing to say,” Laurent replies cooly once he’s caught his breath.

“Oh, shut up.” Laurent raises an eyebrow teasingly at Damen’s reply, letting out a hum of amusement. There’s a moment where there doesn’t need to be sound, other than the breeze blowing against Laurent’s hair, and the wood chips crunching beneath Damen’s feet. “Can I ask you something? Like, for real?” Damen asks, turning to face Laurent.

Laurent swings his bare feet lazily, feeling the sweat between his thighs and the tire swing, and feeling Damen’s eyes on his exposed skin. His legs aren’t long enough to dig into the dirt like Damen’s, but he hasn’t noticed until now. He had never felt the need to compare the two of them.

“Sure,” Laurent answers, looking down at where his black leotard met his hip.

“Why do you...Why do you try so hard?” Damen asks nervously, fiddling with the chain of his own swing. “I mean, you’re so–naturally, you’re so good, you shouldn’t have to–”

“I have to get out of this town.” Laurent states, face expressionless, his body perfectly still. He looks right at Damen, his blue eyes clear of dishonesty. “I have to.”

Damen nods and lets the silence cover them again.

—

When the sun is almost set, Laurent still isn’t tired of talking to him–which is new, exciting, almost. Usually, no one can keep up with him, but Damen seems to see Laurent from all sides.

(The only other people who can understand Laurent so easily are Auguste and his Uncle. Auguste because he was there when Laurent was small and naïve. His Uncle because he had been the reason Laurent had changed.)

Damen is kneeling on the concrete of the sidewalk next to the park, a white piece of chalk he had found creating dust on his brown hands as he made marks on the ground. He’s talking about art, and he’s like– _really_ talking. About Greek art and Black art and how they could intersect to create something beautiful. About how he saw art in people’s eyes sometimes, about his favorite pieces and artists and what made him want to be an artist in the first place. Laurent, in a moment of weakness, asks him what makes him still want to be an artist.

Maybe it’s coming from a personal place, the question. Laurent hasn’t loved dance like Damen loves art since he got to high school. He keeps going because the better he gets, the further away he can get–away from his Uncle, away from his family name, away from anything but ballet. One thought Laurent very delicately avoids was what he would do once it was just him and ballet, stuck in an elevator to the top like old friends who had fallen out of touch.

Damen looks up from his sketch on the sidewalk and up at Laurent, a bright smile on his face. “What?” He asks, his voice slow and dreamy like a Sunday morning breakfast.

Laurent looks away quickly, focusing his attention on the wood chips. “Nothing.” He says, quietly.

“It’s getting late,” Damen says long after the sun has set.

“I suppose it is.” Laurent looks over Damen’s broad shoulders and at the chalk drawing.

One look and Laurent could tell it was him. Damen must’ve gotten inspired earlier, when Laurent was basking in the afternoon sun and dancing lazily on top of a park bench. He might’ve been laughing, too, but he can’t remember. This whole day has felt like one of those weird dreams where you get dressed, put on clothes, and live a perfect life –and then wake up to a blaring alarm clock.

But this was real. Damen’s hand on the small of his back, gently ushering him into the truck’s cabin for the ride home: real. Damen’s smile and art and love for the world: real. Damen: ???. Laurent left him as to be decided.

—

Damen tries to focus on the slabs of granite that are just starting to take shape in front of him, but his mind wanders, unavoidably, to Laurent. He glances at his phone on the desk next to him for a long moment, put on silent so he could get in the zone, and sighs before picking it up and hacking out a message that he’s sure he’ll regret.

 

**damianos**

_hey lauren!_

_*laurent! sorry, autocorrect!_

 

**laulau**

_it’s cool, kinda happens a lot._

_did you_

_need something?_

 

**damianos**

_yeah!!!_

_i have this art project_

 

**laulau**

_are you_

_going to explain it._

_or._

 

**damianos**

_Oh, Rite shit !!!_

_is it cool if we meet up during like? fifth hour? do you have class?_

 

**laulau**

_yeah, but it’s jazz so. who cares._

_it’s [you voice] coolcoolcool_

 

**damianos**

_when bae starts talking like you ❤️❤️❤️_

 

Laurent chokes on his Cheez-It and covers it with a cough. Erasmus, one of the other soloists, gives him a concerned look that has a million _don’t-dance-if-you’re-sick_ lectures rolled into it. “I’m fine.” Laurent quickly answers a question that was never asked. Erasmus nods and returns to stretching.

—

Erasmus covers for Laurent, like he always does, because he thinks Laurent needs a break and is always telling Laurent as much.

Damen is waiting for him at the side door, the one in the art wing that doesn’t have any cameras in it because the art kids kept spray painting over the ones they put up. This whole side of the building is like a different world, and instead of pictures of famous ballets, they have the pieces of graduated seniors, all the way back to 1922, lining their walls. There’s a space for Damen here, somewhere, Laurent knows. There always seems to be space for him.

Laurent shakes himself out of staring when he hears the jingle of keys and click-clack of heels against the linoleum that means one of the administrators is about to head down this hallway and pushes open the door, his dance bag hitting his side as he tries to shield his eyes from the bright sun.

Damen is sitting in his truck, looking around lazily. Laurent regards him for a long moment, thinks about how he could turn around and go back to jazz class, then send Damen a shitty apology so he got the hint. Instead, he takes another step forward. Then another. Soon, his legs have carried him all the way to the passenger side door, where he waves off Damen’s help and struggles to pull himself into the truck’s cabin, plopping down with all the grace of a toddler. Damen smiles in that honest way he does.

“Hey,” Laurent says, because his brain is short-circuiting.

“Hey,” Damen answers, his smile growing as he turns on the radio and pulls away from the school. “I have to be back for seventh but we can go get something to eat, if you want?” He chances a look over at Laurent and sees him taking in the cabin of the truck indifferently. Damen feels his palms start to get clammy against the leather of the steering wheel. “We can get Culvers.” Damen offers, and Laurent just starts changing the station on Damen’s radio in response, which Damen takes as a definite yes.

“Are you trying to fatten me up?” Laurent finally offers, still focused on the radio. Damen offers the end of his aux cord, and, gingerly, Laurent accepts it.

“I doubt you would let me.”

“Sorry for not allowing you to eat me.” Laurent retorts, but soon after saying it he flushes at the implications. “Whatever,” He mumbles under his breath, and Damen laughs.

Laurent plays SZA, because he had a dream about her and Damen dancing together last night, not that he’ll ever tell, and he’s had this song stuck in his head all day. Damen smiles at his selection, singing along as Laurent is slowly rocked to sleep by the surroundings swimming past.

Damen shakes him awake what feels like hours later, but it can’t be more than three minutes, because the same song is playing, and Laurent rubs the sleep out his eyes, squinting until the Culver’s sign comes into focus. Damen looks at him so softly, like he doesn’t mind that Laurent can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. It annoys Nicaise to no end, and Auguste always just laughs.

After Laurent has ordered his chicken tenders kids meal (“You get free custard,” He explains exasperatedly when Damen giggles at his order.) and Damen has ordered his burger, the two of them find a booth in the corner, where there are windows looking out to the drive-thru and the street. Sometimes, objectively, when he doesn’t think about anything that’s happened in it, Laurent likes this city.

They seem to talk about everything, even after they’ve finished their food and Damen has offered to pick up Laurent’s custard from the front for him (“Chocolate, with Oreos,” Laurent instructs, and Damen nods as if this is a very solemn responsibility. Laurent snorts.). “Can I ask you something?” Laurent says, once they’ve reached the topic of Damen’s favorite pages on Instagram.

Damen looks up from where he had been finishing Laurent’s custard, his brown eyes warmer underneath his long eyelashes when they find Laurent in front of him. For a moment, Laurent’s breath is caught in his throat, and he wants to reach out, he wants to put his hand on Damen’s jaw and use the thumb of his other hand to card through Damen’s eyelashes, then his eyebrows, and then, if Damen will let him, through his hair. He also wants to punch Damen in the face, wants to feel his nose crack under Laurent’s hand. Laurent hates himself for both.

“What’s a finsta?” Laurent finally asks. Damen laughs.

-

They don’t talk for a few days after that, and Damen pours himself into his work to make himself forget. He always does this, Nik is always telling him that he does this. He goes for the most unavailable person he can find, always, because...well, Damen doesn’t really know why. Nik thinks it’s because he’s trying to prove something to himself.

(Damen thinks about how his Father had barely cried, even on his deathbed. How Damen had always been the soft one in his family, too gentle to bond with. He thinks about the way Laurent looked at him when he spoke.)

His phone buzzes while he stares at his ceiling. He’s been home alone for at least three months, now, and he couldn’t tell someone where Kastor was if they had a gun to his head. Jokaste has gone missing, too, except not really, because he knows they’re together. He knows they’re trying to make it work, for the baby. At least, Jokaste is trying. (She’s more naive than she lets on, Damen knows.)

Damen smiles at the notification on his screen.

**@thelifeoflaurent requested to follow you.**

When he clicks on the page, it’s private, and the bio simply says, “finsta.”

Damen accepts the request and smiles at his ceiling.

—

Laurent looks up at his ceiling and sees Odette. He always sees Odette, since the poster had gone up when he was eight (and three quarters.) His parents had been downstairs arguing and Auguste had crept into his room and taken a crying Laurent on his shoulders to paste it to the ceiling.

—

“Just think,” Auguste had said while a dish crashed into the wall downstairs.

(“Leave again! I raised Auggie alone and I’ll raise Lau alone, too!” His mother yells, voice shrill. Laurent can see her shaking hands even with all the space between them. He doesn’t learn until much later, but he gets all of his fight from Momma.)

“Think about how, one day–” Auguste continues, like he had heard nothing. (His voice is thick with tears. Laurent found his older brother’s countdown to graduation on his computer last night. It’s scary to think about being alone in this house, but he keeps finding his brother’s age laid out on the kitchen counter. Auguste laces his fingers with his younger brother’s.) “One day there won’t be anything but ballet. Doesn’t that sound like a dream, Lau?”

Laurent nods, sniffles, and wipes his pudgy hands under his eyes and across his cheeks.

“Lau,” Auguste announces, serious. He turns to face his little brother and Laurent keeps looking at the ceiling. (He flinches when another glass breaks.) “Laurent,” Auguste repeats, something new and unfamiliar in his tone that makes Laurent turn to look him. “You know what condemn means, right?” Laurent nods. It’s one of his big kid words.

(He had come through the front door smiling about being put in Reading Group A and was met with the hand of his brother, tight around his wrist, pulling him upstairs before his father got home. His mother found the receipts from the hotels again, and his father came home smelling like someone who hadn’t birthed his two heirs into the world again.)

“Don’t...condemn yourself by forcing love.” Laurent knits his eyebrows together. “If you stop loving ballet, you quit.” The smaller boy is appalled at the thought. Ballet is to Laurent what hockey is to Auguste. “If you stop loving anything, you...you let it go.” Auguste stumbles over his words and Laurent can see his eyes blurring with tears.

“Okay, Auggie.”

They sit in silence for a minute or so before Laurent, with his hands shaking, speaks again.

“Uncle forces love.”

“What?” Auguste almost demands, sitting up on the bed.

“He kissed me, last time,” Laurent admits, after a long pause and a few tears spilling from his eyes. “It made me feel dirty all over.” Auguste nods. Then stands up. “Auggie?”

“I’ll be back,” Auguste assures him, smiling before shrugging on his jacket and slamming the door behind him. Laurent doesn’t jump, when it’s Auguste. Even Auguste’s anger feels safe.

(When Auguste hits the bottom of the stairs, one storm stops and another begins.

When Auguste comes back, he leans over the kitchen counter, steals one of Laurent’s fries, and looks at his little brother seriously. “If it ever happens again.” He doesn’t have to finish. Laurent knows.)

—

Laurent looks up at his ceiling.

Odette stares back at him, just as she always has. Outside, a clap of thunder makes him jump. Auguste is away, on business, and Nicaise is holed up at his boyfriend’s until the storm passed.

(“I don’t think you can claim him as your boyfriend if all the two of you do together is neck and make Easy Mac.”

“You simply don’t understand love, Saint Laurent.”)

Another flash of lightning, rolling over all the colors in Laurent’s room until they were nothing but dust, makes Laurent clutch his covers tightly.

He’s never had to sit through one of these alone. The last time, his Uncle had come upstairs and— Laurent stops that train of thought. He had been alone, then, too, even if he didn’t know it.

More thunder, like all the angels were in heaven stomping their feet and clapping up a storm for God. Laurent shakes. He climbs under the covers and breathes in deeply. He jumps again the next time the storm rings out. Before he knows what he’s doing, his fingertip is smashing against the green call button.

“Laurent? Is everything okay?” Damen’s voice, still thick from the fog of sleep, comes spilling into Laurent’s ears like aloe on a burn. The blonde doesn’t say anything, just takes in his presence on the other side of the line. “Lau, are you—”

All Laurent can say without embarrassing himself too much is, “It’s loud.”

“The storm,” Damen replies. It should be a question, but it never is.

“Yeah,” Laurent answers, in lieu of something funny, or, at least, interesting. His mind is shaking as fast as his hands.

“You want me to come over?” Damen pushes, gently, a moment later. Even from over the phone, Laurent knows there’s no malice in his actions. He pushes down anything that says otherwise. Damen is, fundamentally, good; it was like he was born and raised in a world without darkness. Without any thunderstorms.

“It’s storming,” Laurent says.

“That’s not an answer.”

“The roads are dangerous. You’d die for Netflix and Chill?” Laurent tries to joke, but Damen deflects his attempt at a mood change with ease.

“Laurent.” Damen insists, cutting through Laurent hopes of avoidance. “Do you need me?” A pause, drawn out and heavy in Damen’s chest. “If you do.” He doesn’t have to finish. Laurent knows.

(With Damen, it seems, Laurent always knows.)

“Yes.” Laurent grits out, like he’s fighting himself when he says it.

—

Damen is soaking wet when he shows up 45 minutes later, his shirt clinging to his brown skin and his flannel dripping with rain. Laurent _tsk_ ’s against his own will. _You’ll catch a cold,_ he almost says, in the same tone Auguste used on him when he walked home in his dance clothes.

Instead, he looks at the curves of Damen’s chest, the warm colors of his skin beneath the white shirt, and the bulk of his muscle. Damen towers over Laurent as they stand in the doorway, Laurent looking blankly at him and Damen nervously smiling.

“It is loud.” Damen almost whispers, his voice swallowed by the sounds of the rain.

“You big oaf,” Laurent replies, and Damen just smiles wider.

—

Ten minutes later, Damen’s clothes are in the dryer and he’s pulling one of Laurent’s father’s old shirts over his head. (Laurent has to restrain himself from waving Damen’s back muscles goodbye.) There’s a strange silence between them, not uncomfortable but taking up the space between them like a truck. It’s the silence that dangles in the air when you meet someone new; the silence of someone unlearned.

They had been alone together, and vulnerable together, but they had never been so bare. They had never been Damen and Laurent. In the park, there had been the passerby on the sidewalk beside them. In the school hallway, there had been what seemed like a million dance majors, more than half of them vying for Laurent’s attention in one way or another, and Laurent completely ignoring them. When they had gone out to eat at a little diner Laurent would never admit to being enchanted by, there were still three other people inside.

Laurent felt naked. He felt small, in the same way a child who had stumbled into their parent’s bedroom after a nightmare was. He felt exposed, even in his own house, with Damen’s eyes focused so closely on only him.

It takes Laurent almost a full two minutes to talk himself up enough to look up at Damen instead of the floor of the living room. What he sees is, somehow, even worse than looking at the ground and not talking.

Damen is looking at him, probably has been this whole time, but not at his eyes. Suddenly, Laurent is acutely aware of the brush of loose fabric against the middle of his thighs, the formerly familiar feel of Auguste’s old hockey jersey turned foreign under Damen’s eyes.

Damen looks up. Laurent looks away, trying to control the flush spreading up his chest and creeping towards his nose.

“Hungry?” Laurent blurts, and Damen blushes. Laurent wants to die. “I mean, for— beef? I mean, food.” Laurent finishes suavely, internally beating himself over the head. “Hungry for...food?” He repeats, an unsteady almost-kinda smile on his face. His eyes are daring Damen to make fun of him, but all his guest does is nod.

—

“I can’t believe you burned water.” Damen lets out giddily between laughs. Laurent is on the other side of the couch, his elegant legs tucked neatly beneath him and his annoyance clear on his face.

“It’s easier to do than you’re making it seem,” Laurent answers calmly, smoothing down a piece of hair that had gone awry from his tuck braid when Damen had jumped in front of him to put out the fire. He dares a glance at the boy on the other side of the couch, and the moment their eyes meet, Damen is back into a laughing fit. Laurent resents the warmth growing in his stomach at the sound. “I have half a mind to put you out,” Laurent says, a challenge Damen enthusiastically takes.

“Then who would keep you from burning the house down?” Damen replies, his eyebrow quirking up. Laurent opens his mouth to reply when—

Thunder.

It only causes a pause in his mannerisms, the fear cutting off the second Laurent realizes it’s on. Damen notices anyway and Laurent curses him for it. “It can’t hurt you, Laurent.” The blond wants to scream at the soft words. Damen always says his name like he means it. Like it’s sacred. Laurent wants to strangle him.

“Twenty six people died from lightning strikes in 2015, which is the highest number since—” Laurent can’t make his hands stop shaking. Damen moves closer and Laurent puts up his shaking fingers. Damen stops moving before Laurent can shake his head not to.

“I’m not gonna let anything hurt you, Laurent de Vere.” Damen insists. This time, he says Laurent’s name like it’s holy. Like it was so important it could only be said on Sundays. Laurent can’t form words, he’s so overwhelmed by raw emotion.

The dancer wants to say “ _I know,”_ or “ _Thank you,”_ or “ _I wish I had met you before I was afraid of storms.”_ He says nothing, but a quiet, almost silent, “Okay.” His hands are still shaking. Damen is looking at them.

“L—”

“Okay, Damianos Akielon.” Laurent finishes before Damen can say anything else. Damen looks at him like he is brand new, and he feels the older boy assessing the space between them. “I’m coming over.” Laurent announces before Damen can ask. “Don’t...touch me. Please.” Damen nods and Laurent brings him legs out from beneath him and begins to crawl over. When he gets there, he’s centimeters from Damen, the tip of Laurent’s ballet bruised knee rubbing against the thin fabric that covers Damen’s muscular thighs.

Damen looks at Laurent like he is all that exists. Or, at least, all that matters. “You make popcorn and I’ll choose a movie?” Laurent offers, an attempt to ease them from the quiet.

‘Oh.” Damen says, like he’s realized something. Laurent knits his eyebrows together and Damen laughs, but the tone of a breakthrough is still there. “Oh, yeah, wouldn’t want you setting the microwave on fire.” Damen jokes, brushing off the moment and standing. Laurent pretends like he can't feel his absence and picks up the remote.

“I’ll still kick you out.”

—

Laurent is tucked neatly into the crevice between Damen’s arm and torso, his usually elegant arms wrapped around Damen’s stomach and his hands interlocked on the other side. He blushed when Damen put an arm around him, wanted to scream when he made the move to wrap his own arms around the older boy and the only response was Damen adjusting so Laurent was more comfortable, and nearly cried when Damen reached over (his arms were so big! _RED A-FUCKING-LERT, LAURENT!_ ) and pulled a blanket over the two of them. Suddenly, Laurent can see why Nicaise thinks he’s in love just from Easy Mac and weed dates.

Laurent looks over and Damen is on his phone, obviously bored by the movie, because who could be bored by Laurent? He was an attraction. A bell dings through the room.

 

**ballet booty bae**

_watch the movie, rat._

 

Laurent looks over at Damen’s smile, but is immediately mortified by his phone screen.

 

**ballet booty bae**

_and Why,_

_is that_

_my name in ur phone_

 

Damen laughs and Laurent snatches the phone from his hands, tempted to change his name but falling short on ideas. Instead, he sits on it. “Watch the movie.” He repeats.

Damen raises an eyebrow. “You think sitting on it is gonna stop me?” Laurent flounders. “If anything, that’s incentive.” Laurent is going to die. Damen will really kill him, one day. Probably soon.

“Watch the movie.” Laurent says, weaker, turning back to the screen so he doesn’t have to face Damen with the blush on his face. Damen hums in amusement and looks at the movie.

“So, what,” Damen starts and Laurent groans. “You think _House Bunny_ is, like, a cinematic masterpiece?”

“Yes.” Laurent answers, more to shut Damen up than because he actually believes it. “Did you know,” Laurent says, no inflection in his voice. “The Playmates who live in the house get an allowance from Hef every Friday.”

“Really?” Damen supposes he’s never actually thought about what living in the Playboy mansion was like. He hadn’t thought about Playboy at all, actually. He could hear Nikandros in his head complaining about how the digital age had ruined porn, or some art student ass shit like that.

“Yeah. And they sleep on dirty mattresses.” Damen scrunches his nose up at that, and Laurent suppresses a laugh. “Everyone thinks they’re like wild party girls but they’re not allowed to have boys or family in the house. _And_ they have to be in the mansion by 9 or their allowances get kept from them.” Damen frowns at that, a good sign, to Laurent. “One of them said that fucking Hef was like a job, like they clock in then clock out and he just lays there with his Viagra erection.” Laurent continues, never taking his eyes off the screen as he recited the facts. “One of them said living there was like living with a grandpa you had to fuck.”

The strange thing about moments like this, to Damen, isn’t that Laurent is talking about wrinkly cocks that resemble sea lions and dog shit and Viagra— the brown boy had grown accustomed to the blond’s dirty mouth long ago— it’s that Laurent can be _this_ and a dancer. That Laurent can balance his entire weight on one toe with a shining smile on his face and roses at his feet, and then turn around and become this other him, this rawer, yet somehow more gentle version of his dancer self. Damen just looks at Laurent talk, even though he can’t really understand what he’s saying anymore. He feels it just like he had felt it an hour ago. Except, this time, he has the sense not to say “Oh.” like he’s run out of breath. It’s dangerous, he thinks, to let Laurent know that his effect went past emotional. “Why do you know all this?” Damen asks. His voice is saturated in fondness.

Laurent flushes, and his words stop like a faucet that has been shut off.

“Did you…” Damen starts, unfiltered joy trickling into his tone. “Laurent!” Damen exclaims before laughing loudly, filling up all the space in the room and covering Laurent in a layer of warmth.

“It seemed like it would be fun until I looked it up!” Laurent defends. “I was, like, _eight_!”

“You wanted—” Damen gasps for air and Laurent, laying against his stomach and rocking with the laughter, feels the tips of his mouth quirking up and something warm rising in his stomach. “You wanted to be a playboy bunny!”

“Stop laughing! I had to give up The Playboy Dream™ for ballet.” Laurent almost whines, a chuckle and faux wistfulness in his voice.

Damen laughs harder.

—

When the older boy has wiped away the last of his tears (and Laurent has hit him over the head a few times), he looks down at Laurent, arms still around him and face at a crossroads between annoyed, content, and amused. Damen’s look is so full of affection, so clear in it’s intentions with Laurent’s heart, that whatever the blonde was about to say ends up stuck in his throat. “You haven’t lost your body,” Damen lets out smoothly. There’s a small smile on his face and Laurent is flushing, suddenly aware of the pressure of Damen’s hand against his stomach, and Damen’s breath on top of his head. Damen’s shirt rubbing against his hands, Damen’s lips opening to say more, Damen’s hair, dried and curly and practically begging Laurent to run his fingers through it. There is so much Damen, everywhere, but Laurent is not overwhelmed. Damen’s eyes, which Laurent follows to his own lap.

The old jersey is even shorter when he’s sitting.

Laurent flushes and looks away.

“I think you could still do it.” Damen finishes, fiddling lazily with the fabric covering Laurent’s stomach.

“Yeah?”

Damen’s picks up Laurent’s hand from the other side of him and presses the pale palm, gently, to his lips. “Yes.” He answers. Laurent feels lightheaded. “La—”

“Kiss me.” Laurent interrupts.

“I already have.” Damen presses another kiss to Laurent’s palm. “Tell me.” Damen says. He does not finish. There is no need to, with Laurent.

Thunder.

“I had almost forgotten about the storm.” The words are thick on Laurent’s tongue, but they are the truth. There’s a softness in his voice that even he was not expecting. Laurent slowly, so slowly Damen thinks he might die, moves his hand from the space in front of Damen’s lips to his brown jaw, strong and peppered with stubble. He finally looks up and Damen holds his breath. “It was so quiet.” The tenderest kind of fear in his voice. Damen chuckles but Laurent knows he is not being laughed at.

Laurent sits up straighter, bringing both his hands in front of him and propping himself up on his knees so he’s equal with Damen’s sitting figure. There’s a heartbeat, not a stutter or a moment to rethink, just one beat of Laurent’s heart, before the space between them closes. Laurent’s lips under Damen’s, Laurent’s hands feeling the baby hairs at the nape of Damen’s neck, the two of them, together.

Bare.

Damen breaks away, his hand supporting Laurent’s leaning body and his lips wet. His hand moves to Laurent’s knee and he runs the pad of his thumb over a spot of purple.

“Assemblé en tournant gone wrong,” Laurent explains, basking in the contact between them. Damen hums.

“Can I bring you closer?” He asks, looking Laurent right in the eyes. The blond nods, and Damen hooks a hand under his knee and moves it so Laurent’s thighs are straddling him. Laurent flushes. “What do you want?” Damen asks gently, like he is afraid of breaking something.

“I’m not a virgin.” Laurent blurts.

“That’s not an answer,” Damen replies easily. He had seen it coming.

Laurent flushes again. “Don’t—” He says quietly, putting his hands up. “Toy with me.”

“I’m not.” Easy, again. It’s always easy, for Damen. With Damen.

“I’ll be in ABT.” Unrelated, but not.

“I’ll be in the MoMA.”

“You could do better than that.” Laurent almost whispers, because he really believes it. He reaches out to touch Damen’s face, and Damen closes his eyes at the contact. His face is dangerously close to Damen’s. “When the storm passes—”

“I’ll still be here. If you want, I’ll still be here.” Laurent finds it hard not to let the astonishment he feels show on his face. Damen is always so honest. Laurent’s gone off the deep end, and, yet, he knows, with Damen, it will never be too late to turn back.

“I think you—”

“Don’t think.” Laurent blushes brighter than ever. Damen lurches forward, his lips crashing against Laurent’s like the tide. The kiss is chaste, at first, but then the bubbling in Laurent’s stomach makes him open his mouth, makes him want more and more of Damen. Damen hums approval, the vibration rushing through Laurent’s body like a shock.

Like lightning.

—

Laurent hesitates after a long few minutes of him and Damen kissing like that, open mouthed and wet and both asking for more in different ways. Laurent needs to be allowed to lead without having too much responsibility, and Damen needs to be taken care of, needs to be kissed softly underneath his jaw so he can soak up all the affection he never gets.

(His house has been empty for six months, now.)

“We should go to my room.” Laurent finally offers, because something about the couch made everything too public, made it feel like everything wasn’t just for the two of them. Damen remembers one of the posts Laurent had made, about how his room was like a sanctuary, how he tried to never let people in because he was so afraid of negative energy inhabiting it. Damen nods, and watches as Laurent moves from his lap, the cold hitting him full force as he takes Laurent hand.

He crowds Laurent’s back as he opens the door upstairs, leans down and kisses his neck, pushing the light hairs at the nape of his neck away. He wants to say I love you, or I’ve always loved you, but instead, he just laughs when Laurent flops down onto his bed.

—

“No,” Damen says when Laurent turns onto his stomach. “I want to see you.”

I finally see you, Damen wants to say. Instead, he reaches out and pushes some of Laurent’s hair out of his face.

Laurent relaxes his back against his comforter.

The storm is over.

—

Damen wakes up to an empty bed.

The room he’s in has pictures of all of Laurent’s friends, which he has more of than he’d like to admit. He has medals and trophies all over the walls, but there’s one corner for memory, polaroids of Vannes and a rough sketch of a dead cat with “NICAISE” signed in the handwriting of a child at the bottom. A small vase with half burned sage resting on top of it, a ladder, and Laurent’s whole life splayed out in front Damen’s eyes.

He looks around and finds Laurent on the other side of the bedroom, gently crossing his fingers to re-braid his hair. All the sensations of the night before come rushing back at once and Damen smiles to himself. He can see the line down Laurent’s back clearer now, the dimples at the small of his back, the morning sun casting a graceful shadow over his small frame.  
Damen is content looking at Laurent’s fingers twist in a pattern they must have memorized. He’s content with the way the sun is hitting his cheekbones, making lines that are hard soft. Damen’s fingers twitch with the need to sketch this moment, this perfect moment, where nothing can get better.

Then the humming starts. Slow and gentle, streaming from Laurent like it knew him as home. Damen is always surprised, by this mystery of a man.

Laurent’s voice comes next, soft and gliding along with the coolness of the morning instead of cutting through it.

 

 _Ohé ohé ohé ohé matelot_  
Matelot navigue sur les flots  
Ohé ohé ohé ohé matelot  
Matelot navigue sur les flo—

 

“What does it mean?” Damen asks, and Laurent jumps back. “Sorry, I just...what were you saying?”

Laurent almost smiles but looks away. “It’s a song my mom sang to me when I was little. It’s about a group of sailors who get shipwrecked and decide to eat the smallest one, but then he makes a prayer to the Virgin Mary and she saves him.” Damen doesn’t look as disturbed as Laurent thought he would. It’s too early for butterflies.

“Like _Le Radeau de la Méduse_.” Damen answers, smiling at Laurent from where he was laying on the bed.

“You speak French.” Damen shrugs.

“Only a little. I didn’t understand the song, after all.” He replies, airily, gesturing for Laurent to come over. The blond tucks his braid in and walks over slowly, before climbing into bed next to Damen.

“You know, I think that—” Laurent is cut off by his own scream as Damen leaps up and pins him to the bed. It’s a loose grip, on purpose, so Laurent doesn’t feel too trapped. His heart is overwhelmed by Damen, in this moment.

His eyes are still droopy from sleep, and he has a cowlick at the top of his head the size of a small village. His smile is big, unfiltered and unwavering and all for Laurent. The blond’s heart starts beating a little slower.

Sometimes, with Damen, it felt like he was in a frame. Like someone had created this moment for the two of them, all soft colors and perfectly placed limbs. All browns and bright yellows, blues and greens mixed just for the two of them. Laurent reaches out and smoothes down the piece of untamed hair, and laughs when it pops right back up.

“Hello, lover.” He almost whispers, a small, mischievous smile playing at his pink lips.

“Hello,” Damen replies, like he is suddenly out of breath with the sight of Laurent. Perhaps he is, in such a domestic moment. His smile is so bright it could blind.

Imagine what Nicaise would say if he saw this scene. Imagine what _Auguste—_

Auguste.

“Shit!” Laurent breathes out, breaking both of them from the early morning peace.

“Shit?” Damen echoes, sitting up so Laurent can move.

“Auguste is gonna be home any second!” Laurent exclaims, pulling a shirt on.

Damen squints. “Laurent...it’s April.”

Laurent pauses for a second to give Damen a true _look._

“ _Oh._ Your brother, Auguste.”

“Yes, my brother, and he’s gonna kick my ass and chop my dick into a stir fry if he finds out I broke the only rule he has.” Laurent explains as he looks around the room. He finds a pair of pants in the hamper and throws it at Damen’s head.

“Let me guess,” Damen says as he attempts to pull on the pants. They get about halfway up his calf before he realizes they’re much too small. “No boys?” Laurent frowns.

“No boys when he’s out of the house.” Damen hums in understanding.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” Laurent glares at the nickname. “But none of these clothes are mine.”

Laurent looks closer at what he threw before letting out a loud sigh. “Your clothes are in the dryer.” Damen tries not to laugh.

“Tragic.”

Even from upstairs, Laurent can hear the familiar creak of their back door as it opens. “Shit.” He repeats. “Get in the closet.” He whispers. Damen laughs, then squints at Laurent’s somber expression.

“Get in the closet.” Damen echoes. Laurent nods.

“Just for a minute and then I’ll sneak you out the front door when Auguste takes his shower.”

“Laurent.” Auguste’s feet are heavy against the steps leading upstairs. Laurent looks between the door and Damen almost nervously. Despite his best efforts, Damen can’t hold out against the look in Laurent’s eyes. He climbs off the bed, looks at Laurent’s gracious expression, and walks across the room to open the door to the closet. “Are you—”

“ThankyousomuchIjustdon’twannadisappointAugusteyou’resuchalifesaverbaby.” Laurent breathes out quickly as he pushes Damen into the darkness and slams the door behind him.

Damen’s head is still reeling from the way Laurent had said baby when the door to his bedroom opens.

Through the slits in the closet door, Damen can see Auguste. He’s taller than Laurent, but the relation is clear. Auguste just lacks the practiced coolness that Laurent had worked so hard to maintain. _They have the same nose_ , Damen thinks from the shadows.

“Hey, Wilmer!” Auguste exclaims, throwing his big arms jovially around his younger brother. Laurent carefully, in an almost unnoticeable way, steps away from the closet and groans, hugging his brother back.

“I thought we agreed Wilmer was a dead nickname.” Laurent deadpans.

“No, _you_ said Wilmer was a dead nickname. I never agreed.” Auguste replies warmly, his chin nuzzled into Laurent’s hair.

“ _Auguste—_ ” Laurent whines, but Damen can tell without looking that he’s smiling.

“Sh. I missed my little brother.” There’s a pause. It’s serious, and Damen feels the mood of the room change. “I missed you, Lau.” The way Auguste says it, like he has never meant anything more, makes Damen understand so clearly why Laurent talked about his older brother like God put the moon in his heart.

(Damen feels a pang of something strange in his heart. So long, he had gone without thinking of his own brother, his own absence making it possible, but now here Kastor was again; in bright colors, like the barrel of a gun before a bullet emerged.

“I was six when I finally figured out that just because someone was your family doesn’t mean they loved you.” Damen had said to Laurent one day. He thinks about when Kastor had paused for a long moment before saving Damen from drowning when they were children. “When you’re that young, y’know, TV teaches you everything.” No tears, this time, which was an improvement. “No one ever made a show where no one wanted you, so I didn’t think it could happen.”)

“I missed you more, Auggie.” Laurent whispers into the fabric of his brother’s coat, basking in the feeling of it. “But you just saw me on Friday.”

“That’s a whole two days. My heart was empty.” Auguste jokes, and maybe wipes away a tear.

(“Auguste treats every time he sees me like it is his last. It’s just the way he is.” Laurent had said at the park.)

“Oh, shut up, old man.” Laurent pushes him away and out the door.

“Woah, woah, woah! What’s the rush, dude?!” Laurent flushes and Damen raises an eyebrow. He wasn’t good at lying to Auguste. _Figures._

“Nothing, you just–” Laurent fumbles for a few seconds. “You stink, Auggie. Take a shower!” They’re farther away from the closet, now, so there’s some words Damen can’t quite make out, but he hears the door close and lock and springs out of the cramped space immediately. Laurent whips around and smiles a little, like this had all been a game.

Damen can’t believe this. “Well, I should go–”

“Wait.” Laurent says, his voice low. Damen raises an eyebrow. “Auguste takes long showers. We have time.” The blond raises one perfectly arched eyebrow and does some obscene gestures before Damen gets it.

“Jesus, Laurent! I’m not gonna–I won’t–” Damen stutters.

“Rearrange my guts?” Laurent finishes, his smile growing and the space between them closing.

“Not so loud, maybe?” Damen whispers exasperatedly, gesturing to where Auguste was seconds ago.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, Laurent, I will not make love to you with your brother in the other room.” Laurent rolls his eyes.

“You’re no fun.”

—

Laurent trips in class the next day.

It’s a little thing, really, dancers trip all the time.

But not Laurent de Vere. There was an overwhelming silence as Laurent recovered, flawlessly, no sign of embarrassment or remorse on his face as he continued through his routine perfectly.

Three hours later, he was still hearing the siren sound of his feet hitting the ground at the wrong time, his turn transformed into a fucking mess. The ballet mistress calls him into her office before Jazz, and Laurent wants to scream. He’s never been here for anything bad before. His palms are sweating and he’s disgusted.

The office is stuffy, the only window a huge pane of glass setting the city as the mistress’ backdrop. “Mistress, I’m sorry about earlier, I was–”

“Distracted?” She finishes. Any other words are caught in Laurent’s throat. “You think you’re special?”

The world starts shaking.

“Everyone can do a rond de jambe, everyone can do triple pirouettes, everyone can do fouettés. That’s not what makes you beautiful, that doesn’t make someone say ’wow look at that kid.’” Laurent feels like he’s caught in the middle of the thunderstorm, staring straight into all he’s ever feared and being unable to do anything to save himself. The mistress studies his face but he keeps his eyes to the floor. “It doesn’t matter if you have the most gorgeous feet in the world, Laurent.” It’s a minute, a long pause in between heartbreaks before Laurent realizes the hot stinging in his eyes is the prickling of tears. “You have to find the special thing on the _inside_ and make it show on the outside. There are a hundreds of cities with a million best dancers. They don’t need someone like you, who just knows the technique… there’s thousands of them.” Laurent had never been made to feel replaceable before now. It was not a feeling he liked. “They need someone special.” The mistress finishes, looking at Laurent’s face again. “I suggest that you cut whatever it was you were thinking about instead of ballet out of your life now.”

That hurts more than anything.

“You’re sixteen, Laurent. You’re getting to the important ages and now’s not the time to throw it all away.” Laurent nods. “Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Laurent answers, quietly, before bowing and leaving the office.

He turns a corner, wiping his eyes and ready to leave the school, when he finds exactly what he had been thinking about instead of ballet.

Damen looks like a vision in the afternoon light.

Laurent wants to cry.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a bundle of clothes. Damen smiles and takes them, moving a step closer to Laurent. “Thanks.” He’s made a home of Laurent’s personal space, his scent strong and his hands on Laurent’s slim waist. “So, Nik is having a party this weekend and I thought you could meet–”

“I don’t want to meet your friends, Damen.” Laurent whispers. He tries to put a bite behind his words but it doesn’t go through with a quiver in his voice.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Damen asks softly, looking around the empty hallway before putting a hand under Laurent’s chin. “Are you cry–”

“I don’t want to meet your friends.” Laurent repeats, his words harder. He pushes away and Damen doesn’t try to close the space again. He knows better. “This was never going to work. I need to focus on things that are important–”

The whole world is holding its breath, it seems.

“And you’re not. So just...leave me alone, alright?” Laurent’s face is hard, and Damen is gaping.

“When we made love–”

“When we fucked.”

Damen doesn’t bother finishing his thought after that. He looks at Laurent in disbelief and backs away.

“Fine.” He breathes out, and he’s doing it again, putting all his emotions right there for Laurent to see and breaking his heart over and over.

“Great.” Laurent smiles, a sight sweet like honeyed poison.

“Y’know, _Lau,”_ Laurent’s name sounds like a balloon without air. “It’s kinda fucked up that you made _me_ promise not to leave if you were going to anyway.”

 _Oh._ That’s what having your heart walked on felt like.

Damen’s jaw rolls. His eyes are dark. Anger looks nice on him. Everything looks nice, on him. Laurent wants to reach out and hold him and never let go. Laurent wants to punch him right in the eye.

“ _I’m_ kinda fucked up, _sweetheart.”_ Laurent declares. He remembers Vannes telling him Damen had waved to her in the hallway. “And stay the fuck away from my friends.” Laurent adds.

The dancer doesn’t look back as he walks away. He falls asleep to the same words over and over in his head:

“You think you’re special?”

He had thought, he had thought; and it was a fool’s dream.

—

Despite his better judgement, Damen opens Instagram and types in Laurent’s @, his fingers seeming to move without his permission.

He expects to see that dumb picture Laurent always posts, of a cat in the middle of a circle of knives, but, instead, it says that no posts are available, and that Laurent has one less follower.

Damen throws his phone off the bed, and the sound of it hitting the ground echoes through the empty house.

—

That Friday, Laurent’s mind feels like it’s pirouetting on the edge of something terrible. One misstep away from the end. He wakes up from his dreams sweating.

“Hey, Bugs,” Auguste says happily as he peeks his head into Laurent’s room.  When Laurent had come home from school on Monday, he had flown into Auguste’s arms wordlessly, burying his nose against his brother’s chest. Auguste had kissed his head, told him it was going to be okay. Told him to pick up the pieces. “Sorry to interrupt your Angst Garden but don’t forget about the benefit mixer for the company tomorrow!”

“I’m not–”

“Yes,” Auguste sings over Laurent’s objections. “You _areeee!”_ He closes the door and carries the tune down the hallway, leaving Laurent wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and a dark room.

—

It takes Laurent 30 seconds to realize that the air at this benefit, as opposed to the eight thousand other ones, is different. Usually, it’s a little stuffy, filled with the subtle digs and wordless wars Laurent had grown accustomed to over the years.

But this one had Laurent tugging on the collar of his dress shirt, trying to find a different way to let air into his body. These silences killed, and the air was so thick that Laurent had trouble breathing. “Auguste.” He chokes out eventually. His older brother promptly ends his conversation with the businessman in front of him and presses the back of his hand to Laurent’s forehead.

“Laurent, you’re burning up, are you sick?” Laurent shakes his head.

“It feels like I’m waiting to fall off a fucking cliff.”

“It’s probably just your anx–”

“Hello, nephews.”

Laurent feels the world start to move in slow motion.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- laurent's self destructive tendencies  
> \- mentions of his uncle  
> \- sex, although it's not explicit.
> 
> thatz it! i'm kind of revamping this whole thing and also working on replying to comments more, so please leave one if you enjoyed! (you can leave it at the end too so don't worry dajsdnka) you can talk to me abt this nonsense over on tumblr!


	2. pt. ii: the light enters you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurent finally does the right thing, and makes some friends along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laurent is called bugs because he wanted to be a bunny when he was younger, and he's called wilbur because he snorts like a pig when he laughs too hard. pls enjoy! kisses fingers. this is my uhhh tour de france or however det shit go, trigger warnings in the end notes..AND let me say that i predicted damen's left cheek dimple. this chapter was originally published in march of 2016, Before it became canon. i am a god

_"the wound is the place where **the Light enters you.** ”_

_\- rumi_

_\----_

 

 

Laurent feels the world start to move in slow motion and he refuses to turn around. Instead, he looks up at Auguste’s face, which is suddenly hard, his blue eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

Laurent had learned the world over again, when Auguste gained custody. He was only twelve, but suddenly, everything was in bright colors. He kissed his own small shoulders and convinced himself to see love when he looked in the mirror. He sang the birds songs of his pain and made sure the stars knew of all he would become despite it.

He did not know that new worlds could end as quickly as old ones.

His Uncle’s hand is heavy on his shoulders, and they’re in public. People are watching them, all of them, and Laurent knows because he can feel the prick of their eyes against his back like spikes. Like he’s being crucified.

He does not move, under the weight. Perhaps if he is perfectly still things will change.

Auguste and his Uncle are talking, biting marks hidden behind smiles, when Laurent pulls out his phone. He forces himself to steady his fingers and type.

 

**do not reply (laurent)**

_can you come get me_

_please damen_

_please_

 

**damianos a.**

_where are you?_

 

It’s always easy, with Damen.

—

Damen shows up 15 minutes later, when Laurent thinks he might scream if he has to spend one more moment in this room. He’s glad Nicaise had a baseball game and hadn’t come. Laurent wishes he hadn’t come either.

When Damen walks in, Laurent turns to Auguste and smiles, tightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I promised a friend I’d run errands with them.” Auguste nods, gives Laurent a look that says _I didn’t know_ and Laurent shakes his head. His brother had too good a heart to make him come if he knew Uncle was going to be there.

“All this freedom.” His Uncle interjects. Laurent forces himself not to pale. He closes his eyes at the burning feeling behind them, tries to retrace his steps and pick up the pieces of himself. Even the voice feels like bugs crawling beneath his skin. “He’ll grow insolent if he’s raised this way.” It’s directed at Auguste, but His eyes don’t tear away from Laurent until Auguste speaks up. Laurent is still picking up the pieces.

“Me raising him insolent will still make him four times the man you ever hope to be.” Auguste bites back. Sometimes Laurent forgets his brother has claws. Damen is behind Laurent, now, his presence warm and almost comforting. It would be comforting if the cold of his Uncle did not overwhelm all.

“Auguste,” His Uncle tuts. “So rude to someone both your brothers held so close to their hearts.”

Kissing your own shoulders does not make you a mountain, Laurent learns in the moment that follows.

Damen’s fist collides with the side of his Uncle’s face before Laurent can think to stop it. There’s yelling, and Auguste has the middle aged man by the collar, pressing him against the wall with all his weight.

“Keep their names out of your fucking mouth or I’ll–” Laurent manages to pull Damen out the banquet hall before anything else can happen, and he feels his Uncle’s blood making their hands clasped together moist.

“C’mon, Damen, get in the car.” He’s never seen him so mad. He’s never loved him so much. He’s never felt so real. Laurent pleads against the brick wall pushing against him. “Please,” His voice breaks. “I can’t be here for another second.” Damen sobers up immediately, unlocking the doors and helping Laurent into the truck’s cabin.

“I’m sorry.” Damen almost whispers when they’ve been driving for 12 minutes. “I’m sorry that–”

“Don’t, Damen.” Laurent lets out. His hands are still shaking. Damen nods.

“I should have knocked his head off his fucking shoulders.”

—

They end up at the same diner they had eaten had a couple of weeks ago, except, this time, it’s completely deserted. Laurent bangs against the door desperately, screaming for someone to let them in. He didn’t even notice he had started crying until Damen grabs him and pushes him into his chest.

“There’s nothing special.” Laurent sobs into the cotton sea of Damen’s sweatshirt. “There’s nothing inside me, anymore.” He cries, hysterical.

Damen holds him tighter so Laurent can’t forget he’s there.

—

An hour later, they’re swinging lazily in their park, the moon high and Laurent’s wracking sobs a memory, reduced to sniffles every now and then. There’s a silence looming over them that warrants something Laurent has never really had to do before.

“Look, Dami–” Laurent says at the same time Damen says, “Laurent–” Damen chuckles awkwardly.

“You can go first.” He says sheepishly, gesturing to Laurent.

“Okay.” Laurent breathes out, bracing himself for what was coming. “I’m sorry for being a dickhead and asking you to come get me after we...I mean, after I–When, when I–” Damen laughs and Laurent tries to smile, but it looks pained. “I’m new at this.”

“You don’t have to–”

“I do.” Laurent insists, his voice strong. “Auguste got me this fancy therapist who says that I can’t just be a dickhead to everyone I love because I...because of what happened.” Laurent face burns with shame. It’s the most he’s told anyone of his childhood.

“It’s okay.” Damen smiles a little, swinging a little closer to Laurent. Laurent can’t tell if it’s on purpose, but the air feels warmer anyway. “Can I ask you something? Like, for real?” Laurent is hit with a wave of deja vu as Damen turns to face him. He hums a yes, almost slipping off the swing trying to dig his bare feet into the wood chips beneath him. Damen giggles. “What was that about, y’know, being special?” Laurent’s face burns.

“I just...my teacher.” Laurent relays the mistress’ speech word for word, even putting in that he cried. “No one’s ever…” Laurent trails off.

“And you thought that meant that you had to break up with–I mean.” Laurent blushes. Him and Damen had never talked about themselves, what they were, that seriously before. “You thought that meant we could be us anymore?”

“She said get rid of whatever was taking away from ballet. And I figured–”

“Laurent.” Damen’s voice is strong, now, and Laurent quiets. “You’re what’s taking away from ballet. You know that, don’t you?” Laurent feels something sting his eyes.

_Oh. There it was._

“You don’t love it anymore.” Damen concludes, like he just realized. He searches Laurent face. Laurent shakes his head.

“I don’t know.” He says weakly. “I just...I want to.” He shrugs and feels his face twist up. He tries to smiles through it. “I want to—” Damen reaches over and pulls Laurent out his seat, lifting them both up to go sit on a bench by the sidewalk. Laurent laughs, tells Damen to put him down, and Damen makes a million princess jokes before he set Laurent down, gently, against the metal of the bench.

“You just need some inspiration. Something that makes you wanna keep going.” Damen says seriously. “Like...Oh, I don’t know…” Laurent raises an eyebrow and has a feeling he knows what’s coming next. “Oh! Here’s an idea I just thought of,” Damen says as he pulls Laurent into his lap. “Come to Nik’s party.”

“Damen, I don’t like—”

“How do you know you don’t like something you’ve never done, huh?” Damen puts on an award winning smile and raises an eyebrow at Laurent. And the dancer holds out, really, he does, because there’s _no way_ he’ll sacrifice his values this easily just because—

Damen has a dimple in his left cheek Laurent never noticed before now.

“Sure.” Laurent succumbs without a second thought.

A smile so bright it could blind.

—

Laurent doesn’t go home that night.

Auguste understands.

Laurent rubs at his arm as he walks through the door of Damen's house. It's simpler than Laurent's, which is covered in scaffolding and intricate designs, but, in some weird way, it's more beautiful than Laurent's. Damen's cabinets slam, and he has big, red bricks exposed all through his big, empty house. Their footsteps echo when they walk, and Damen awkwardly motions to the couch. “You can, uh, put your stuff anywhere.” Laurent looks down at himself, at all of the nothing he's carrying, and then back at Damen, before pretending to peel off a jacket, much to Damen's dismay. “You're an asshole.”

Laurent smiles. “I know.” A long silence rows between them, and Laurent looks up at the ceiling, rocking back and forth. They're in the living room, which has floor to ceiling windows and a sliding door out to the backyard. Damen glows in the light of it, the moon beating down on his dark skin and him unknowingly drinking it up. Laurent's words get caught in his throat.

He wants to say _thank you, for caring about me_ , or _thank you, for staying through the storm,_ or _I love you so much my head hurts with it late at night_ , but, instead, he smiles and says, “You're too big for your own good, mon ours.” Damen open his mouth in shock, but Laurent can see the grin behind it.

“I didn't even do anything!”

-

Laurent decides he loves Damen's house and Damen decides he loves having someone in it.

(When they were walking up to Damen's room, Laurent sees all the closed doors, the ones with dust on their doorknobs, the ones Damen doesn't look at or make jokes about during the tour. He thinks about how Jokaste had dropped out of school out of nowhere. He thinks about the way Damen looks at pictures of his brother. Laurent decides not to say anything.

Everyone is entitled to their private wars, he decides.)

“You didn't take your shoes off?” Damen exclaims when he sees Laurent's dirty Vans against his cream carpeting. Laurent looks down at his feet, then back at Damen, and lets himself look confused. “God, you're so white.” Laurent giggles and hops onto Damen's bed, letting his feet swing off the side, while Damen leans down to slide his shoes off, grimacing at the state of them. “Laurent.” He says, with the same tone Auguste uses when he walks in on Laurent singing along to Uptown Girls at 3 in the morning. He holds up Laurent's shoes, which are almost black where they used to be white and have holes in the back and front.

Laurent flushes. “What? They still fit.”

Damen rolls his eyes and shakes the shoe in front of Laurent. “You live like this?” Laurent giggles again, and Damen smiles. Laurent pats the bed when both of his shoes are off, and Damen thinks about how comfortable he looks, in this room, surrounded by pictures of Damen's family. When Damen climbs into the bed, they both flop down and stare at the ceiling, where there are pictures of Damen's mother, and some of Damen's first artwork, and a string of pictures of him and his Dad, and him and Kastor, and even a few of Jokaste, and, in the corner, one of Laurent. Laurent blinks.

“That's me.” Laurent whispers, because Damen has been drifting in and out of sleep next to him. Damen opens his eyes, looks over to Laurent and then back at the ceiling.

“That's you.” Laurent considers the picture for a moment, and everything seems to run through his head at once: the picture of the cat surrounded by knives, the sketches of him that are still pinned to his wall at home, the way Damen saved him from the storm—or, the way Damen taught him how to save himself.

“Okay,” Laurent replies, and Damen moves over, puts his arm around Laurent's waist and his head on Laurent's shoulder.

There are moments when Laurent can tell Damen lives in an empty house: the way he bathes in affection, how he can't be around too many people for too long, how he always seems surprised when his own voice doesn't echo back to him.

Laurent keeps looking at the photos. He thinks about how he had scrubbed Damen's hand raw under the water of the bathroom sink, trying to get Uncle's blood off.

Everyone is entitled to their own, private wars.

An hour later, Damen is laughing about something stupid into the crook of Laurent's neck and all Laurent can do is laugh along, all Laurent can seem to do in the water that is Damen is drown. The laughter dies down, and a long silence sits between them, a comfortable one. Then, the blond points looks down quickly, and, without thinking, says, “All of your cousins look just like you.”

(“And who is that?” Laurent had asked twenty minutes earlier, pointing at a girl with Damen's exact coloring and nose.

“My cousin, on my Momma's side. I haven't seen her since the funerals.” A pause. “She lives in Texas, and when we were, like, seven, I fell out a tree and broke her arm.” Laurent laughs.)

Damen lets a short breath out through his nose. “My grandpa has strong genes.” There's something bitter to it, and Laurent takes in a deep breath. He wants to be ready to go down this road with Damen.

“Including the one where men in your family die young?” Laurent feels Damen's arm stiffen against his waist.

“What?” There's pain in that, Laurent knows, but he keeps going, because he needs this, in some selfish way. The blond points at a string of pictures from when Damen was little, his Mother holding him, not much older than Laurent is now, in a hospital bed, him in his grandfather's lap, him holding his grandfather's hand, and then –

“Your grandpa disappears,” Laurent explains, and then points to another photo. “Then your dad.” Damen moves his arm from around Laurent before he can point at the last photo and say, “Then your brother.”

Damen moves to the edge of the bed, and runs a hand over his face. Laurent thinks about that hand swinging over his head and into the side of Uncle's face. He thinks about it punching Laurent right through the chest. “I,” Damen starts, but the words get caught in his throat. Laurent crawls over to him, wraps his arms around Damen's neck, and presses his face into the back of Damen's shoulders. He tries to find a word big enough for all of this, but his mouth goes dry.

So he kisses Damen's neck as soft as he can, brings up his hand to stroke the side of his face, and says something that won't get caught behind his teeth, because he's said it so many times, crying into Auguste's chest and gripping onto dolls that he's supposed to point at. “It's okay,” Laurent coos. “We just won't have any sons, okay?” Damen turns, his eyes glassy with tears he won't let fall, and looks at Laurent like he's brand new.

“Okay,” Damen whispers, softly, reaching out and pushing a piece of Laurent's hair out of his face.

“Okay.”

-

Thirty minutes later, after Laurent has taken a shower and thrown on one of Damen's old sweatshirts, and finds himself laying on Damen's chest, rocking with the rise and fall of it. His hair is tied up, most of the curls falling out of the bun.

(“Is your hair like this?” Damen had asked, twirling a piece of Laurent's hair between his index finger and thumb. Laurent nods and keeps tracing patterns on Damen's chest. “It's prettier, this way.”

Laurent forces himself not to stiffen.

 _You're so pretty,_ all the voices of the men say at the same time, and Laurent closes his eyes. _Show us on the doll where they hurt you,_ the same voices say.)

“Tell me about your family.” Damen says, laughing softly when Laurent rubs against his hand like a cat. “I know about Auguste,” He continues, putting up his index finger. Laurent wraps a couple of fingers around Damen's and nods along.

“Auguste, my brother, not the month.” Damen laughs, and him and Laurent touches the tip of his index finger to Damen's middle finger when he puts it up. “Nicaise,” He leads Damen.

“Nicaise,” Damen repeats, the name thick on his tongue.

“That's our little brother.” Laurent explains, and Damen nods. “He's an asshole.”

Damen laughs. “So your grandpa gave that to all of you too?”

“Shut up!” Laurent laughs, lets himself get wrapped up in all of Damen's warmth.

“So, Nicaise is the endearing little brother, and Auguste is the supportive, yet emotional older brother,” For some reason, Laurent holds his breath, waits for Damen to launch him across the room and say, _And your Uncle, he runs you all._ Instead, Damen runs his hand along Laurent's, and says, “And you're the beautiful middle child.” Laurent smiles at that, brings Damen's hand to his mouth and kisses it softly.

“You think I'm beautiful?” The word is sticky with unfamiliarity in Laurent's throat. He had always been pretty, and cute, like a thing you put on a shelf, never to be touched. Like a – all the men's voices come back in his head, _Show us on the doll where you were hurt._ Laurent had never been beautiful before. _I don't look like a doll, I don't look like anything,_ Laurent had answered.

“Of course I do.” Damen answers, soft in that way he always is.

Laurent wants to say _I'm so glad the world didn't hurt you,_ or, _I wish the world hadn't hurt you,_ or _I think I got all the pain God thought you couldn't handle and I'm okay with that,_ and, _You're gonna heal._ Instead, Laurent rushes forward and kisses Damen, sloppily moving his hands to grab the side of his face. Damen smiles into it, and when they break apart he plants a kiss on Laurent's nose. “This is all very gay,” Laurent states.

“Yes, very gay.” Damen repeats, and holds on tight to Laurent's waist when he climbs onto Damen's lap. “I don't know if you'd believe it, but we seem to be getting gayer by the second.” Laurent laughs and traces a pattern over Damen's chest.

“We're really disgusting,” Laurent answers before leaning down and kissing Damen again, long and deep. “Like I'm repulsed, and I know you've been avoiding the flexible ballerina sex jokes.” Damen laughs, runs his hands further up Laurent's side and runs his thumb on the soft skin of Laurent's stomach. He never asks about the scars there. They kiss once more, with Laurent opening his mouth when he feels ready, making a sound when Damen lets his hands wander. Damen moves to smile into Laurent's neck at that, and then lifts Laurent up so he can struggle his way out of his sweats, with Laurent laughing in the background. “Hey, can we try it on the floor? Your grandma is staring right at me.”

“She has kind eyes.”

“God, shut up.”

-

 

The next morning, Laurent wakes up with his legs around Damen’s torso and Damen’s head tucked into Laurent’s pale stomach. Laurent’s arms are lazily hanging around Damen’s neck and the older boy is holding onto Laurent’s lower back tightly.

(“You big baby,” Laurent had said the night before when Damen had climbed into the position, his voice dripping with fondness and his eyes soft. In response, Damen had lifted up the old shirt Laurent was sleeping in and blew raspberries into the tender skin of Laurent’s stomach until Laurent was snorting with laughter.

“Wilbur!” Damen had proclaimed, laughing hard at the realization of the nickname origin.

“Shut up!” Laurent cried, mortification apparent.)

Now, Damen was quiet, his chest rising and falling gently against Laurent. Laurent runs his thumb along the sides of Damen’s hair, where it’s shorter. Damen responds to the touch, smiling a little in his sleep. After another minute or so, his eyes flutter open, big and brown and unapologetically affectionate. _Good Morning,_ Laurent wants to say, but the sight leaves the words caught in his throat.

“Good morning, Laurent de Vere.” Damen says, smiling sleepily. It’s a joke, about how after Damen abused his nicknames he was going to get demoted to formal addressing only.

“Good morning, lover.” Laurent answers, his voice soft as he pushes hair out of Damen’s face. He can almost feel the warmth in Damen’s heart grow. An honest man. Such an honest man.

Damen hums his approval of the pet name, nuzzling his head into Laurent’s stomach and falling lazily back to sleep. Laurent laughs.

—

Damen lives on the edge of the lake, a five minute walk away from the beach, in a huge house with simple pillars to support the porch on the second floor. There’s a fountain in the front, but unlike Laurent’s, there’s no driveway up to the door splitting around it. It’s simple, in the middle of a patch of grass to the side of a straight driveway. Even the decorations are plain, compared to the intricate scaffolding and designs in Laurent’s house.

Nikandros’ house is the same, but there’s bright lights flaring from the inside, and music is blaring up and down the block. Laurent squeezes Damen’s hand on the walk up to the door.

“Shouldn’t we….” Laurent is about to say, “ _knock,”_ when Damen pushes open the door and their arrival–or, Damen’s arrival–is met with cheers from all around. It’s the first time Laurent’s felt so unnoticed, and he’s not sure how to feel about it.

He not sure if he hates being swallowed in all that Damen is.

“This is Laurent.” Damen says as they enter a circle of people outside, crowded around a roaring fire. All of their faces change, in a way that says _So this is him?_ Laurent waves, before looking at Damen a little helplessly. “He’s a dance major, best in the city.”

“Can he speak for himself?” Nikandros interjects, smiling and raising an eyebrow. It’s a challenge.

“I can see your dick,” Laurent answers, motioning to Nikandros’ unzipped shorts. At least it sounded sweet. There’s a pause in the air before one of them, Pallas, Laurent remembers, from one of Lazar’s many talks about his ass, starts laughing loudly.

“You look like the….the….how you say, the one with the dog? And the crime?” He turns to the oldest one, Makedon, a questioningly look in his eye and his accent thick.

“Shaggy?” Makedon offers, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah! Yes, yes! The Shaggy!” Pallas laughs harder, and Damen lets out an airless chuckle. Suddenly, Laurent doesn’t feel like such a foreigner.

—

He calls Vannes about an hour into the party, when some airheaded art major with a too expensive backpack and baby bangs says how _into_ girls like Vannes she is.

“I don’t know.” Damen says tentatively. “Usually these are just an art major thing, Nik already didn’t wanna invite dance majors.”

“Well, that, I understand, because you know dancers suck the life out of every room.” Laurent deadpans, rolling his eyes. “It’ll be cool, Vee is super sophisticated.”

“Creative writing majors...they are scary.” Pallas shakes his head. It’s true, actually, that few of the other majors harbored no fear towards the writers. They were mostly girls and entirely terrifying.

“They’ll rip your guts out with their teeth and then write poems about it.” Makedon notes, downing another cup of the Brown Liquid he seemed so fond of. Laurent almost smiles.

“Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a bit scared.” Damen puffs out his chest in response and Laurent bites back a laugh. He couldn’t take Vannes on a good day. “Plus,” Laurent adds with a pointed look towards Pallas. “She’s with Lazar right now. They’re probably just fucking around and breaking the law, I’m sure they’d _both_ be happy to drop by.” Pallas smiles.

“Lazar?” Laurent nods, a smile plastered on his face.

“Don’t be cruel, Laurent.” Damen whispers in his ear. Blue eyes roll.

“It’s not cruel. Lazar’s been waxing poetic about Pallas’ left ass cheek for weeks. Maybe he’ll shut up if he get a little co–”

“Just,” Damen interrupts, putting a hand up. “Call Vannes.” Laurent smirks.

 

**lil booty laurent**

_911 [cat emoji] [art pallette emoji]_

_[airhorn emoji] [beef emoji]_

_[eggplant emoji] [water drops emoji]_

**baby vee**

_i’m On my way!_

_*omw_

_autocorrect is sacrificing my aesthetic_

 

“You guys have a code?” Damen asks from where he sits next to Laurent.

“Yeah, strictly for genital related emergencies.” Laurent assures, more focused on the way Makedon was studying him.

“You’re inviting guests to our party and won’t even bless us with the honor of you taking a sip of our liqueur?” He asks, or, more so, accuses, his drink sloshing around his cup. Nikandros smiles wickedly and opens his mouth.

Laurent downs of cup of what tastes like perfectly aged lighter fluid and forces himself not to make a face before Nikandros can even speak. “See?” Laurent says, showing his empty cup like a dare. Makedon cheers. “Plus, don’t think of Vannes as my friend. She instantly classes up any event, and I know how artists love classism!” Laurent quips. Damen snorts. “She’s the classiest girl in town!”

—

“ARE YOU ARTSY BITCHES READY TO GET FUCKING _LIT_?” Vannes demands as she struts in, holding up two six packs with Lazar balancing a keg behind her.

Damen snorts. “A real class act.”

“Fuck you.” Laurent spits back, as Vannes finds them in the backyard. “Vee, come on, I’ll introduce you–” Laurent pauses. “Are you already drunk.” It’s not really a question.

“Sh,” Vannes says, pressing a finger against Laurent’s lips. “Mayhaps I am a little…pre-turnt. A prologue of the what’s to come, is all.” She explains, as she collapses in Laurent’s lap.

Him and Damen had been sitting on the ground, where there were blankets set up _just_ far away enough from the popping of the fire. Laurent leans against Damen, feeling a big arm snake around his shoulder as Vannes laid in his lap.

“Don’t worry, Bugs,” Vannes ensures. “I only drank, like, 2.”

“2 what?”

“Mayhaps three.” The brown girl corrects, furrowing her brow and snuggling into Laurent’s thigh. “Your legs are so toned, do you do pilates?”

“Ballet.” Laurent exclaims, faking politeness and almost smiling at Vannes. There’s a warm look in his eyes that Damen adores.

Vannes hums with understanding. “Oh, right, ballet. You think it’s too late for me to start?” She turns up to see Laurent looking down fondly at her. The blond shrugs.

“It is a bit difficult with mild alcohol poisoning.” Laurent offers. Vannes giggles.

Laurent is soft, in the fire’s heat and glow, his lines relaxed and his hair thrown into a poor excuse for a bun. Maybe it’s the Miscellaneous Liquid (Makedon Inc.®, 2016) making Laurent’s limbs looser, but Damen knows he likes how easy Laurent’s mind seems to be rowing along.

Lazar has been glued to Pallas’ side since he set down the keg, his cheeks bright red and his hand nervously scratching the back of his neck. Pallas, for his part, looks incredibly endeared, an unforeseen softness taking over all his features.

“Io sono Lazar. Nizza per incontrarla.” The words are choppy and half of the pronunciations are wrong, but Pallas beams.

“It is nice to meet you, also, as well.” Pallas replies, standing up. “Would you…” He gestures to the blankets and then, inside the house.

“Already?” Lazar doesn’t look as scandalized as his tone suggests. Pallas furrows his brow.

“Io non capisco.” The shorter boy replies, gesturing again.

“Capricorn? I’m actually a Sag–”

“He said he doesn’t understand.” Laurent interjects from across the circle. Realization dawns on Lazar’s face and his cheeks burn. “You fucking trainwreck.” Laurent almost sound _giddy_.

Damen is really in over his head, here.

“Fuck you,” Lazar mouths to Laurent as he walks back into the house with Pallas, who, apparently, had been asking if Lazar would help him bring the chairs out.

Laurent giggles.

—

An hour later, the party is still blaring, now more than ever, with Vannes scaring the few present freshmen and Laurent taking every challenge Makedon threw at him.

There are chairs around the fire now, and the backyard isn’t as empty as before, but Laurent knows that Damen is still sitting on one end of the wicker couch Pallas had dragged outside with help from Lazar.

(“When he was walking up the stairs in front of me I totally saw it.” Lazar sighs dreamily and Vannes imitates angels singing.

“ _The butt, the butt, the buns, the buns, the buns.”_ She chants, stomping from foot to foot like a Sumo wrestler. Laurent is glad to not be the most ridiculous one, for once. “ _The butt, the buns, the butt, the buns–”_ She declares, picking up speed and volume in her dance, if the somewhat satanic chanting and stomping could be considered that.)

**daddy dame ❣**

_hey come over by the fire_

_i have a pressing question_

 

Laurent looks around shakily and can immediately identify Damen’s head looming over all the other sitting frames. His phone buzzes again.

 

**daddy dame ❣**

_& i unlocked ur phone during naptime_

_this new name…._

_it suits me, no?_

 

Laurent flushes.

 

**baby [pasta emoji]**

_i’m gonna piss on your grave, daddy_

_does that turn u on_

 

**daddy dame ❣**

_laurent ❤️_

_i didn’t know u dabbled in the…_

_watersports_

 

Laurent marches over to the bonfire just to wring Damen’s thick ass neck, but is instead met with a strong arm around his waist as Damen remains sitting and pulls him into the arm of the wicker couch. Laurent feels warm all over, and forgets whatever had him so mad before.

“Laurent,” Damen insists, saying his name like it was heavy from all the love he carried it with. His words are slurred. “Please tell these _uncultured heathens,”_ Boo’s from around the circle, especially Nikandros. “which High School Musical has the best soundtrack.” Laurent had, admittedly, been expecting to weigh in on something a bit more refined, but he wasn’t exactly surprised. Art kids were an enigma all their own.

Laurent looks at Damen, hoping for some kind of hint towards what he was supposed to say. It was obvious Laurent was some kind of tie breaker, and he didn’t wanna fuck around and make Damen lose, as funny as it would be. Damen’s about to mouth the answer when Lazar yells his objection.

“That’s fucking cheating!” The brown haired dancer exclaims, Pallas agreeing from his seat on the armchair, almost in Lazar’s lap.

(Laurent could hear Lazar’s internal monologue from across the fire pit.)

“Fine.” Laurent says, rolling his eyes and screwing up his face with eep concentration. He pops one eye open and answers slowly. “High School Musical...Three?”

Damen erupts into a loud, celebratory cheer, his arms shooting up and the sound surrounding Laurent.

“Oh.” Laurent says, more to himself than anyone else, his tone full of realization. His voice is lost is the noise of the party.

“Tell me how in the fuck! _SCREAM_ better than _GETCHA HEAD IN THE GAME?!_ ” Nikandros demands, enraged. Damen laughs and presses a kiss into Laurent’s palm.

There’s a crash inside.

“Vee.” Laurent curses under his breath and rushes towards the noise. “I _told you_ about _table dancing_ , didn’t I?!” Damen can hear Laurent’s retreating figure yell.

“Fuck off!” He hears as an eloquent response.

“Got a real keeper there, Dame.” Nik jokes, raising an eyebrow.

“I know.” Damen replies, a smile on his face.

—

In the following hours, Laurent begins to compile a list of Vannes’ various wrongdoings whilst under the influence:

  * “hyperspeed” milly rocking, which had ended in two broken bones (neither of which were hers)

    * at this, Laurent had laughed so hard he _cried (_ and snorted).

      * Damen was in too deep.

  * milk chugging contests with lactose intolerant freshmen

  * copying her vagina in Nik’s dad office (“That was locked! How did you even get in?!”) and then showing it to Laurent

    * “Vannes O. Vask, put that thing _back where it came for or_ _ **so help me I’ll–**_ ”

  * throwing up into Laurent’s hair.




The party has died down, by now, and only those who were too intoxicated to drive home and the few who had started sitting around the backyard fire remained. Damen is staring fondly at the towel wrapped around Laurent’s hair and pinned up into a beehive.

“It’s _couture_.” Laurent jokes as he snuggles a little further into the crook between Damen’s arm and body. It was April, but it was cold, and Laurent’s hair was wet.

“Here.” Damen says, ignoring the joke and paying attention to Laurent’s shaking instead. He pulls the sweatshirt he had taken off earlier over Laurent’s clothed head and smiles. “Better?”

Damen has a dimple in his left cheek. This sweater smells like him. When had he made such a home out of Laurent’s personal space?

“Better.” Laurent replies quietly.

Pallas is sitting on Lazar’s lap, finally, and even though there’s probably a serious boner sticking into him, he’s smiling. He’s playing with Lazar’s long hair, pulling it down from the little bun he had put it in.

“It’s cute.” Pallas giggles, and Lazar’s cheeks burn so red Laurent thinks he might set on fire.

Vannes has a cowgirl hat on and new clothes, her old ones thrown into the fire after she threw up. She was animatedly telling a story from where she was laid out across a wicker couch, her calves on the armrest and her head in Nikandros’ lap. Her eyes had dared someone to move when she first flopped there, and no one had been brave enough to try.

“So, I’m pretending to be an art hoe, and then, I’m in the middle of a _beautiful_ sketch and she says, ‘That’s nice and all but you drew the dick upside down.’” Damen gasps.

“You _didn’t._ ” Nikandros laughs out, horrified and amused.

“I’ve never seen a dick in my _life!_ ” Vannes defends, putting her hand over her face and giggling wildly.

“Queen of the Gays.” Laurent coughs out as he calms down, and Vannes lets out a loud, ugly, bark of a laugh that Damen would like to hear over and over. “Once Vannes put on her standardized test that she was black, latinx, and lesbian.” Laurent can barely finish his sentence, he’s laughing so hard.

Lazar is laughing so hard you’d think he’d never heard anything funnier. “I’m ⅓ Lesbian!” He cries out, gripping his stomach. “On my–” He gasps for air. “On my dad’s side!” Laurent laughs louder.

“I thought you said you didn’t like parties.” Damen whispers smugly to Laurent once everyone has calmed down.

“I’ve never been to one. My friend, Aimeric, he hated them. His dad was—” Laurent stops. It’s not his story to tell. “He used to hate being around drunk people.” Laurent waves it off and Damen furrows his eyebrows.

“I’ve never met an Aimeric.”

“He tried to shoot himself in the head over winter break, so.” Laurent shrugs. “He has to stay in a psych ward this semester. You can meet him in the summer.”

Damen visibly pales. “Laurent, I’m–”

“Sh,” Laurent almost whispers. “It’s quiet, it’s quiet.” He mumbles as he snuggles further into Damen’s chest, letting his eyes close.

“We’ll leave in a little bit, alright?”

“Okay, Auggie.”

Damen is unphased.

The sky is clear for them, tonight.

—

Laurent makes it home by 4am that night, creeping into Auguste’s bedroom next to the kitchen downstairs instead of his own. He’s sobered up enough to know he’s not sober enough to make it up a flight of stairs unscathed.

Auguste hums and lifts up the plush cover for him, exposing Nicaise’s feet next to his head. Laurent is careful not the wake his younger brother as he climbs into the bed, finally flopping comfortably as his legs intertwined with Nicaise’s. “G’night, Auggie.” Laurent slurs, turning a little.

“Goodnight, Bugs.”

—

Nicaise wakes up at 11, and Laurent has learned that if Nicaise is up, they’ll all be up. The shower turning on and the loud music coming from the bathroom is what makes Laurent open his eyes, though.

Auguste is making breakfast by 11:15, a mess of eggs and hashbrowns that will somehow feed their three man army. Laurent mopes into the kitchen with a blanket wrapped around him like an aging king, and flops down on a stool, putting his head down on the granite countertop of their kitchen island. “Make chocolate chip.” He groans, and Auguste smiles. If Laurent had it in him, he would look and glare at his brother. He makes a note to be especially difficult some other time.

“Baby’s first hangover?” The older boy laughs under his breath and places a stack of plates and some silverware in front of Laurent. “We can eat in my room.” Laurent lights up, taking the pile of things and scurrying back to bed. “Tell Nicky to get out the shower and come bring the syrup in there!”

—

“So,” Auguste says once Laurent has half a pancake in his mouth and his leg’s over Nicaise’s back. “What did my little brothers get up to last night?”

“Nothing.” Nicaise and Laurent say at the same time. Auguste rolls his eyes.

“Scale of 1 to Call the lawyer, how illegal?”

“A low 3.” Nicaise answers. Laurent nods in agreement. “Theft is, like, one of those fake crimes, right?” He asks. “Like jaywalking or drug paraphernalia.”

“Hm, I’m going to go out on a limb and say those two example crimes are not equal.” Laurent says, amusement playing in his tone.

“Hey, I heard you went to a party and didn’t come home until the wee hours of the morn.” Nicaise wiggles his thick eyebrows. “Did _my_ brother, _Saint_ Laurent, have, dare I say it, _fun?_ ”

Laurent squints. “Don’t you _ever_ accuse me of enjoying myself again, Nicky.” Auguste snorts and it’s quiet for a second as they eat, Auguste with his legs wide open on the armchair in the corner, and Nicaise and Laurent laid out in the bed. “I actually, uh…” Laurent thinks back to the conversation him and Damen had had on the walk to the party. Damen had said it then, so he could say it now. “I got a boyfriend. It was his best friend’s party.” Nicaise gasps, and Auguste hollers.

“Alriiight, Bugs!” Auguste cheers, and Laurent groans.

“Don’t! Call me that!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- violence, including blood  
> \- mentions of suicide  
> \- mentions of aimeric's father  
> \- drinking
> 
> leave a comment or come see me on that hell shit tumblr to talk about these shenanigans, @damiianos


	3. pt ii: everywhere and always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled: it's a small world and we found a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading and encouraging me to write this! love you! also fun fact: the youngest prima ballerina in history was 18. also! laurent is called bugs because he wanted to be a playboy bunny, and yknow...BUGS bunny?? he's called wilbur bc he snorts when he laughs too hard & wilbur is the pig from charlotte's webb. thanks for reading!

"love calls, **everywhere and always**."

\- rumi

\---

School on Tuesday isn’t as scary as Laurent thinks it will be. More people say hi to him in the hallway, Nikandros looks pointedly at him as he walks by, and Vannes hooks her arm with his.

“All these people have been coming up to me and–”

Laurent feels a kiss on his cheek. “Hey, baby,” A low voice says, before Laurent whips around. Damen waves warmly at Vannes. She raises her eyebrows suggestively and Laurent pushes her down the hallway.

“Go to class, Vee.” Laurent tries to sound annoyed but there’s a warmth in his voice. The brown girl sticks her tongue out at Laurent and Damen laughs.

“Bye, Vannes.” She waves without turning back around and Laurent looks up at Damen, flushing a little. “Good morning.” Damen says, snaking his arms around Laurent’s waist and smiling down at him.

“Good morning, Damianos.” Laurent replies after a second, his face still red as he lifted to the tip of his feet to put his lips over Damen’s. It doesn’t last long, but it’s long enough to satisfy Laurent and Damen doesn’t complain. “Are you coming to see me after third hour again?” Damen nods.

“Who else would attend you?” He jokes, and Laurent rolls his eyes, a small smile playing at his lips. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the bell starts ringing and Laurent pales.

“The mistress is gonna have my ass if I’m late again.”

“Well, you tell her I am the only one allowed anywhere _near_ your ass.” Damen says, lowering his voice. He looks around and there are only one or two people left in the hallway, so he reaches down and squeeze’s Laurent’s left buttock to show what he means. Laurent turns bright red.

“ _Damen–”_

“Relax, Bugs, go to class.” Damen laughs, turning Laurent around and pushing him towards the studio with a smack to the ass. It jiggles and Damen suddenly believes in God again. Laurent turns around and glares daggers at him before beginning to run towards the dance department.

“Don’t call me Bugs!” Laurent yells behind him, right before he almost crashes into a wall but turns the corner instead.

—

“The mistress said I’m dancing really well.” Laurent says at lunch the next day. He’s missing jazz again. “She said I ‘dance like I have something to believe in again.’ She says it’s the best she’s ever seen me.” Damen beams.

“See! I told you!” He screams, drawing the attention of the table next to them at the crowded restaurant. “You’re special, Laurent de Vere.” Damen whispers after putting up a hand of apology to the other table. “One of the most special people I’ve ever met.” Laurent rolls his eyes.

“Don’t get mushy in public, Damianos.” Laurent says, but something bright is dancing in his eyes as he looks at Damen. “Isn’t the senior showcase coming up? What’re you planning, Mr. Picasso?”

Damen’s face lights up as he hands the waiter the check. “I’m actually on the design team and I was thinking it would be cool if we created like an interactive experience, y’know?” Laurent nods and keeps listening to Damen while he puts his coat on, and while they walk outside. It’s raining,the water beating down on the pavement, and Laurent groans.

“The one day I straighten my hair.” Laurent says under his breath, looking around helplessly from under the awning. He’s about to begin to run to the car when he feels Damen’s coat land on top of his head.

“C’mon.” Damen says, lifting Laurent up bridal style and walking calmly to the truck. Laurent is giggling and telling Damen to put him down to no avail. The blond doesn’t even feel the rain until he’s transferring from Damen’s arms to the truck cabin. He’s laughing so hard he almost falls, and then he just laughs harder.

He’s sobers up at the soft look Damen gives him when he climbs, soaking wet, into the driver’s seat. In a moment of boldness, Laurent reaches across the divider and grab’s Damen’s brown hand, letting his boyfriend’s much bigger palm rest gently against his as he intertwines their fingers.

“Tell me about the art show some more?” Laurent suggests softly. Damen looks out of breath, and Laurent knows it’s not because of the trip from the restaurant to the car. He nods.

“I was thinking about it at the party because we had never met so many people because we were different majors and I just thought it would be cool if we like...I don’t know, like integrated the other majors with our art show? Like maybe Vannes could do a poem or something and you could–” Damen blushes a little.

“I could dance?” Laurent finishes.

Damen nods sheepishly. “If you wanted. I’m just in charge of the showcase now and I want it to be perfect and you’re–”

“I love you.” Laurent says quietly, like it had slipped out on accident. And perhaps it had, but he was too proud of himself to look a bit embarrassed.

Damen smiles, more smug than anything. “Really.”

Now, Laurent is embarrassed. “Really.”

Damen hums his approval and Laurent raises an eyebrow. “I love you, too.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Laurent has to stop himself from squealing when he tells Vannes about it on the phone that night.

—

Laurent's phone goes off while he's sitting at his desk a couple weeks later. He assumes it's Vannes, because they've halfway convinced Aimeric to dye his hair white, and it's a plan they're both very serious about perfecting. Damen had laughed but there were, like, serious man hours involved. Instead, it's the devil himself, a picture of Damen with Laurent's finger almost up his nose and his disgusted expression lighting up Laurent's phone screen. Laurent closes his door, ignoring Auguste and Nicaise downstairs, and presses the accept call button for Facetime. “I feel like I almost see you _too_ much.” Laurent states, focusing on the papers in front of him.

“No such thing,” Damen replies, and Laurent looks up because Damen has those rocks in his voice that mean he just woke up, and he _knows_ how Laurent gets when he sounds like that. When their eyes meet, Damen’s hair covered by his hoodie, Laurent feels the pressing urge to hang up and pretend they never met. “Hi, baby.” Damen drawls, letting the words run over Laurent.

“You’re a dickhead,” Laurent answers, and Damen laughs. “How is Texas?” Damen had gone on a whim, after reconnecting with his cousin— who's arm he had previously shattered in three places.

(“You said broke! You _shattered_ a girl, Damen!” Laurent had exclaimed.)

The warm weather was making Damen darker, which made his smile look brighter, and for the first time, Laurent thinks that maybe Texas isn’t the second worst place in the world. Maybe, he thinks, listening to the little drawl Damen seems to have picked up, it was okay.

“It’s okay,” Damen answers in Greek, which Laurent refuses to admit he’s learning.

“Don’t speak that witch language to me,” Laurent says, offhandedly, pretending to be focused on his homework. Damen groans.

“If anything, French is for witches.” The older boy mocks, and Laurent rolls his eyes.

“Everyone knows witches are German, you buffoon,” The blond replies, and just as Damen is nodding his head in agreement, there’s the sound of Nicaise’s beat down sneakers colliding with the stairs as hard as he can muster.

“I can’t fucking stand you!” Nicaise screams, slamming the door to his room closed as Auguste chased up the stairs after him.

“Nicky, wait—” Laurent can hear Auguste say to the closed door, and if he can hear, then so can Damen. Laurent’s suspicions are confirmed when he looks back at his phone and Damen has his “ _I hate confrontation”_ look on. Laurent presses his lips together, his cheeks flushing a little with embarrassment. But he knows. He knows Nicaise is more sensitive than he lets on, and he knows that sometimes anger feels easier than everything else. He knows that sometimes thunderstorms are easier to blame for jumping out your skin.

“I should…” Laurent starts, but Damen just smiles.

“Well, obviously I kept the glue of the de Vere household occupied for too long.” Laurent feels his cheek heat further. “You guys go cast spells or whatever faerie folk do at home.” Laurent makes a mental note to remind Damen that faerie folk and witches were _way_ different, and makes a face when Damen kisses his phone screen.

“I love you,” Laurent says anyway.

“I love you, too.” Damen replies before hanging up.

Laurent looks over to his door. He could pretend to be asleep, avoid the whole thing, and not mention it ever again. He knows it’s selfish, but sometimes it _is_ his job to hold everyone together, to keep Auguste from sobbing at full volume everytime he sees a bouquet of lilies, or to keep Nicaise from getting kicked off the baseball team for “the wellbeing of others,” whatever _that_ was.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

 

_ **de vere gc / family matters / n’sync but make it fashion / bunheads cancellation support group** _

 

**nicky the harajuku barbie**

_literally leave me the fuck alone auguste_

_and stay in your fucking room, laurent, because no one asked you to butt the fuck in_

_fuck both of you_

 

Now, because he’s been explicitly asked not to, Laurent has to engage, and he stands up from his desk chair and goes through the bathroom him and Nicaise share, stopping at the door on the other side. He knocks on Nicaise’s door twice and peers in when the door moves under the weight of his hand. “Nicky?” Laurent calls out, softly, his eyes scanning the room before they land on the mass of boy laid out on the bed by the window.

“Go away, Laurent.” Nicaise spits, but he’s lost most of his venom, over the years. Laurent remembers when he had first moved in with them, when Auguste had gained custody, because, technically, Uncle had had custody of Nicaise, too. He remembers Nicaise calling him an unfuckable waste of space, he remembers Nicaise, eight years old, knowing how to put on makeup and — Laurent stops thinking about it. His stomach is starting to turn.

“Nicaise,” Laurent starts, and Nicaise groans.

“Come on, then, let’s just get it all out, you guys expect more from me, I’m a huge fuck up, I have the least points on the recovery scoreboard, let ‘em rip, Lau.” The boy makes his voice sickly sweet, and Laurent frowns.

“Recovery doesn’t have a scoreboard.” He reaches over to the desk and grabs a nail file, starting to file Nicaise’s thumb. Laurent repeats the words of his therapist. “Every day you’re alive, you won.” At that, Nicaise sits up, but doesn’t say anything, just looks at Laurent file down his fingernails.

“I,” Nicaise starts, but closes his mouth when Laurent looks up to meet his eyes. “I feel like I’m losing.” He admits, his blue eyes swimming in tears that haven’t fallen yet. Laurent wants to reach inside his little brother and pull the pain out, wants to pick up all of the pieces that got trapped between headboards and the wall, wants to send his fist through someone’s chest, wants the men and all their hands to have to sit in front of Laurent, and he’ll ask, “ _Where on the doll did I hurt you?”_ and what’s left of them will answer,  “ _Everywhere.”_ It’s what they deserve.

“You’re not losing, Nicky.” Laurent says. “When I was thirteen,” He starts, and the words burn his throat, memories come for him full speed, but for Nicaise? He’ll walk back to the hotel himself, he’ll lay down in the same bed, he’ll do anything. “When I was thirteen, I was still crying myself to sleep every night.” Nicaise rolls his eyes and motions to the way he’s crying, now, as if to say, _And I’m better?_ Laurent breathes out and reaches out to wipe some of Nicaise’s tears away. “Everytime me or Auguste used to touch you, you would jump. You used to wear makeup from head to toe, and you hated your freckles, and you never, ever, would’ve been happy with some boy making you Easy Mac.” Nicaise giggles.

“He puts seasoning in it,” He tries to defend, and Laurent smiles.

“Of course he does, Nicky.” They stay like that for a couple minutes, Laurent filing down Nicaise’s nails and Nicaise not saying anything, letting the red fade from his cheeks and breathing in air from the open window.

“I’m supposed to get my wisdom teeth out,” Nicaise blurts out. Laurent raises an eyebrow, motions for Nicaise to give him his other hand, and Nicaise obliges.

“Not like you to be scared,” Laurent observes.

“I don’t—” Nicaise says, but the words get choked up in his throat, and now he’s crying all over again. Laurent pulls him into his chest and smoothes down his dark curls, letting Nicaise cry into his shirt. Or, Damen’s shirt. When he gathers himself some, a few tears still falling, he lets out, weakly, “I don’t want them to put me under.”

Laurent pales, thinks about all the things they left in that hotel when Auguste came for them, like their childhoods and their memories of their mothers and their normal fears, like snakes or spiders. Laurent is afraid of being buried alive but that’s only because he has been before, and Nicaise is afraid of being out of control, Nicase clenches his fist so tight that sometimes his nails poke through the skin of his palm, and he has the scars to prove it. The nail file becomes heavy in Laurent’s hand.

“Oh, Nicky,” Laurent whispers, and Nicaise cries harder.

“I feel like I’m losing,” Nicaise repeats.

They sit like that for a long time, Nicaise crying into his older brother’s shoulder, and Laurent accepting it.

(Years from now, on Nicaise’s draft day, Laurent will say, “Being your big brother is the closest I ever came to being a superhero.” A pause. “And, before you ask, yes, my hero name _is_ Super Bitch.”

And Nicaise will say, with tears in his eyes, “Shut up.”)

A few minutes after Laurent leaves Nicaise’s room and tells Auguste what’s going on, his phone buzzes again.

 

_ **de vere gc / family matters / n’sync but make it fashion / bunheads cancellation support group** _

 

**auggie**

_NICAISE’S WISDOM TEETH BASH_

_BYOT (BRING YOUR OWN TEETH)_

_FREE FOR ANYONE WITH DENTAL INSURANCE_

_LEAVE THE DRAMA AT HOME_  
NO SCHOOL FOR ANY DE VERE CHILD  
WE POPPIN THE BIGGEST BOTTLES WHEN THESE TEETH COME OUT BOI

**la nicki minach**

_**[pepe holding face meme]** _

 

_**glo lau** _

_y’all make me sick_

 

Laurent smiles at his screen and clicks onto the tab he was looking at. “ _To agóri mou,”_ He repeats after the voice on his computer. He’ll never admit to it.

-

Laurent has to show up to the art show the next month extra early to help Damen set up. He ties a bandana around the front of his head and smiles when Damen stares at him while handing him a box of stuff from the back of the truck. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Laurent says in his best girl-from-a-teen-movie-voice, practiced meticulously over marathons with Damen.

(“I can’t believe you’ve never seen _John Tucker Must Die!_ You’re literally John Tucker.”

“Is that an insult?”

“You wouldn’t know, would you?”)

Damen smiles. “You look like a housewife with your bandana on like that.” Laurent flushes and walks away.

“If this is you asking me to have your kids, you’ll have to try a lot harder.” Laurent calls behind him as he goes to put the box inside the space the school had rented out for the show. Damen laughs.

—

That night, Laurent has clothes in his bag for after his dance and his costume on underneath the his warm up jacket. He’s wearing his warm up shoes, too, and feels startlingly out of place amongst the high heels and dress shoes.

The theme of the show is supposed to be past, present, and future, with Damen’s Big Piece™ in the back as the closer. Laurent had asked to see it, earlier, thinking he had special boyfriend privileges, and Damen had promptly shut him down.

“It has to be a surprise to everyone, but especially you.” Damen had said.

Now, Laurent stood in front of it in his show makeup, watching the white sheet like if he stared long enough, what was underneath would reveal itself. Behind it was another one of Damen’s pieces, a huge canvas with a brown boy sitting and wearing a floral noose. Laurent had seen it while they were setting up, but Damen made art that could take your breath away every time you saw it.

“You like it?” Damen asks, coming up. behind him. Laurent nods.

“Is it–”

“My brother.” Damen corrects before Laurent asks. “A portrait on hypermasculinity in nonwhite communities.” Laurent nods again.

“It’s the only one in this whole gallery I understand.” Laurent states, looking pointedly at some mushed together thing on a pedestal. Damen laughs.

“Art is art, Laurent.” The blond rolls his eyes and keeps studying Damen’s pieces.

“You’re good at these ones.” Laurent comments, pointing at a landscape Damen had made towards the beginning of the year. It was warm in the right places, and reminded Laurent of the moment right before the leaves changed in the fall.

“Watercolors?” Damen sounds amused.

“Yeah, whatever.” Laurent mocks, and then looks at his phone. “Well, I’m on at 7 and it’s 6:45 so,” Laurent goes on his tip toes and drags Damen down by his shoulder to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you after.” Damen smiles warmly as Laurent walks towards the front of the room, where his dance would begin.

The lights start flickering at exactly 6:55, just like they were supposed to. _God bless the theater kids,_ Damen thinks as he herds people back towards the entrance of the building.

Damen feels knots growing in his stomach as the clock moves forward, more for himself than Laurent. To Laurent, stuff like this was nothing, light work in comparison to his competitions or actual performances.

The music starts and Damen’s shaking hands are stilled at the sight of his boyfriend.

Laurent looks like a vision, and it’s not just because of the shimmery light casting down on only him in a dark room. His skin is in soft focus, his lips a perfect shade of pink to match with his startling eyes and platinum hair, which is pulled into a tight bun on the top of his head. Damen doesn’t think it could get better than this, but he’s proven wrong when the dance starts.

Laurent had always had a way with deception but _this–_ his turns and his feet and his facial expressions...they were that of a broken hearted boy who had learned the world over again. The music is fading in and out, because Damen’s focus is so dependent on Laurent.

Laurent’s limbs are gentle and striking at the same time, always on beat and always belonging among the deft movements of the rest of his body. Even Nikandros looks a little breath taken. Damen feels a surge of something that must be pride as the last stanza of the song comes. He stands in front of his Mystery Piece™, as Laurent had called it, his hand latched onto the sheet covering it.

_Should I give up,_

_Or should I just keep chasing pavements?_

_Even if it leads nowhere,_

_Or would it be a waste?_

_Even If I knew my place should I leave it there?_

_Should I give up,_

_Or should I just keep chasing pavements?_

Laurent has done exactly what he said he would, positioned himself to do his last steps with his back to Damen’s final piece. Damen pulls down the sheet before Laurent makes his last turn, and the blond is frozen in place halfway through, staring at the piece of carved marble in front of him. He hears the crowd gasp when they make the connection.

It is him.

Two of him, in fact.

One of the statues is sitting, smiling, his hair curly like few people know Laurent’s naturally is, the soft laugh lines of a whispered joke on it’s face.

Laurent’s eyes feel like they’re on fire.

He’s crying and he hasn’t even seen the second one yet. Damen is watching his face and Laurent looks helplessly between the statues–one low, smiling and sitting, and one en pointe in a perfect arabesque, one hand perfectly graceful behind him and one holding a book. Laurent gasps. _Le Petit Prince._

(“That’s who you remind me of.” Damen had said softly one day, pushing Laurent’s hair out of his face. The blond laughed.)

He can’t stop crying.

“How did you–” He chokes out, and Damen smiles.

“I started them the day we met.” Damen explains, softly. Laurent is so overcome with emotion that when Vannes clears her throat into a microphone, the audience is still staring at him.

He can’t stop crying and everyone is looking between him and Damen like–Laurent realizes, all at once.

He was on display, not the statues.

Vannes begin speaking from the stage in the center of the room before Laurent can collect himself. He suspects it’s on purpose.

“My _best friend,_ ” She starts, and Laurent already wants to sob. There is a smile on her face and her words are thick with tears. She clears her throat again. Begins again.

“ _My best friend inherited his smile from the sunspots on his Father’s back. He built a home from the shaking hands he got from his weeping mother and cleaned the scratches on his throat with the clouds. I tell him I love him in every day. In case he forget as easily as I do that he is important. That he is more than blood and bones. He is the stars and the hands of god on this very Earth, a drop of nectar fallen from Olympus to make a new kind of angel.”_

Laurent can’t stop crying.

There’s a hand on his shoulder. Laurent looks up and it’s Damen, but, for a second, he thinks it’s Auguste, blurry in his old hockey jersey.

Sobbing, now.

“ _Me and him,”_ Vannes continues, like Laurent isn’t emotionally compromised enough. “ _We brush our teeth instead of pumping our stomachs when our own scars make us sick. Tiny dancer,”_ She continues, without pausing for breath. “ _Tell me about the warring islands of your heart and the palm trees of your soul. Tell me about the days you are so lost in the shade your bones turn cold. Tell me about how you kissed your shoulders until you were fourteen, tell me about songs your Momma sang to you in your only true tongue, tell me about how it burned to kiss boys until you met one who looked at you like there were universes braided into your hair. Tell me how you told him you loved him until the whole sky was pink.”_ Vannes pauses, wipes a stray tear off her cheek, and looks straight at Laurent. “ _Aimeric called_.” She says, and Laurent might just burst. “ _He says he forgives you and that you do not have to pretend to be a winter mountain when you are but a waterfall in the spring. You are a tiny Versailles, an unstormable Bastille, a love so bright that the poets of Homer’s time sang about you before you existed, you are more than blood and bones. You are more than man. You are a cast iron bitch stewing a pot of all things good. I do not cry for you like I used to.”_ She smiles. “ _Your light swallows all my tears, now.”_ The brown girl steps away from the mic with a small, “Thank you.”

And just like that, it’s over, the lights up and the crowd erupting in applause. Damen bows and then points at Laurent like he has never been prouder. Louder applause. Laurent bows even though his legs feel weak. Vannes is last, a mess of brown limbs and sniffles and a quiet, “This is so fucking gay.”

“Hey,” Damen says, sounding a little worried. “You okay?” Laurent nods and he smiles. “Alright. Go get changed, and we’ll go out to eat. Laurent nods, looking at Damen for a long second before letting go of him and scurrying off to the bathroom.

—

He, unsurprisingly, looks a fucking mess, his show makeup a smudged together mess of colors and the lines of his tears visible through his foundation.

Laurent looks himself over, once, before entering back into a room of people who have seen him cry his second set of tears of joy. (The first was when Auguste had gained custody.)

He looks more presentable now, his heels casual and his legs hairless, by choice.

(Nicaise had seen him shaving and frowned. “How do you do that? Don’t your legs get cold?” Laurent laughed and shrugged.

“I like it, I guess.” Nicaise had nodded slowly, then continued picking his chin hairs off with a pair of tweezers.)

He has on shorts, high waisted, and he turns around and smiles at how short they are.

(Auguste had raised his eyebrows at Laurent as he cut the shorts from some old jeans. “You’re cutting that pretty short, Lau.” He had said, and Laurent had beamed. “Your ass is gonna hang out.”

“A girl can dream.” Laurent had replied, smiling.)

His shirt stops just below his bellybutton, leaving a strip of pale skin exposed between the green of the sweatshirt and the light blue denim. The only part Laurent wasn’t so sure about was his shoes.

They were light brown with a chunky heel, because Laurent had just gotten the confidence to wear them out in public, and even though he had eyed the stilettos in the store, he knew, safety-wise, this was a good first step.

Usually, Laurent reveled in the comfort of winter— no exposed wrists or thighs or ankles if he didn’t want there to be. But summer was coming, and Laurent was trying new things; crying in public, falling in love, having fun. Still, Laurent let himself linger in the mirror, giving the excuse in his head that it was to fix his bun (messy, with the baby hairs perfectly framing his face), but he knew it was because he was afraid to face the world feeling so exposed.

(There’s a burn mark on his thigh right above where his shorts start. He had been careful not to make them so exposed that it showed. He was not that brave, not like Erasmus, not yet.)

Vannes pops her head in. “Hey, dude, hurry the fuck— _Oh shit!_ ” She yells, coming all the way into the bathroom to see Laurent’s whole body. She puts her hand over her mouth, a little gasp coming from her mouth. “ _Laurent._ ” She whispers, in the way moms in teen movies did when they saw their nerdy daughter dolled up on prom night. She might be crying. She might also, more likely, be a little “pre-turnt.”

She’s speechless, her mouth opening and closing as she searched for the right words. “Yeah?” Laurent asks, looking at himself in the mirror apprehensively before looking back to Vannes, who’s nodding eagerly.

“Fuck yeah.” And Laurent hadn’t expected to be this emo tonight, really, but it’s something about the pride in her voice and the bathroom air against the most skin he’s shown in public since he was twelve that just takes him somewhere else.

He kisses his own shoulders before walking back into the gallery.

Damen drops his water bottle when he turns and sees Laurent. The blond doesn’t smile, just nods and sits in a chair by the door. “Don’t you have to go clear the gallery?” He asks, pulling out his phone and crossing his legs. Damen doesn’t move. “I was thinking maybe we could go somewhere and pick up a bunch of food and then go get Aimeric and then I have a _surprise_!” Laurent says, not looking up from his screen as he sent a very explicit text to Aimeric about the consequence of his not being ready when they showed up.

 

**heauxrent**

_and i know it’s your first night out in a while_

_you can go home whenever._

_i promise._

 

**aim messenger**

_Soft laurent is my second favorite laurent_

_After back that azz up laurent_

 

**heauxrent**

_i just remembered i hate your ass._

 

Damen hasn’t moved and Laurent will never hear the end of it if he’s late picking Aimeric up after yelling at Aimeric to be ready on time. “Damen?” Laurent asks, trying to catch his attention.

 _It’s even shorter sitting down, his thighs, his legs, his stomach,_ _ **It’s even shorter sitting dow**_ — “Damen.” Laurent repeats, and the brown boy snaps himself back into reality.

“Hm?” Damen says. Laurent furrows his eyebrows together. “Oh, right, yes. Here,” He throws the keys and Laurent’s deft fingers catch them. _His fingers._ “S-start the car.” Damen stutters out. Laurent makes an amused noise and goes out the front door, carrying his ass with him. Damen feels a little empty now that he’s not in the same room as it.

He walks to the back of the gallery and sees a blonde woman staring at his piece of his broth— of Kastor. She’s balancing a little boy on her hip, but still looks more composed than anyone else that night (except Laurent, of course). “Excuse me, miss, the gallery is closed n—”

She turns around and Damen almost screams. “Now, that’s no way to treat an old friend.”

“Jojo Bean!” Damen yells, and Jokaste grimaces at the nickname but accepts his one-armed hug. “I didn’t think you would make it!” The blonde’s mouth quirks up into a sad kind of smile.

“I’m not that busy, these days.” Damen sobers up immediately. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, or say all the things he’s been meaning to say since the night Kastor was arrested, but Jokaste puts her hand up. “Don’t, okay?” He nods.

“This must be Theo, then!” Damen says happily, waving at the small child. He’s young, can’t be more than a few months old,and he makes a happy noise and waves back. “I’m your Uncle Damen!” Theo gurgles a little and Jokaste laughs.

“Do you think there are alternate universes, Damen?” The girl asks, strapping her child into the carseat. Damen furrows his eyebrows and nods. Jokaste stays silent all the way to the door after that, ignoring Damen’s conversations with his nephew. When they get outside, Jokaste tucks Theo’s blanket into any open crevices on his sides to make sure he’s bundled up. “The way you looked at me when we first met.”

“When we were seven.” The memory is vivid— Jokaste’s long hair flowing behind her as Damen pushed her higher and higher on the swing, her laugh loud. They played in the street and made too much noise and no one stopped them. That is the gift of childhood, after all. Jokaste looks older, now, her blue eyes a little darker and her face no longer covered by bangs. She is a woman, now, and Damen can hardly stand it. It makes him want to cry.

Jokaste nods. “You believe in alternate universes?” She asks again, and there’s something rocky in her voice when she says it, like it’s a boulder in front of a waterfall. Damen understands.

Damen is choking on something, too. “I believe in that one.” He says simply. She nods, and some twisted form of relief comes over her tired face like a wave. She doesn't wave goodbye, simply smoothes down Damen’s cowlick and let’s her hand linger on his jaw before walking away.

(“Who was that?” Laurent asks, waking up from his nap as Damen opens the door.

“Do cars specifically make you sleepy, or can you just sleep everywhere? Like a cat?” Damen comments as he pulls out the parking lot.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Just an old friend, Lau.” Laurent hums and Damen reaches across the divider and places a comforting hand on Laurent’s thigh.

The blonde flushes.)

—

Erasmus is the first one besides Damen, Laurent, Aimeric, and Vannes (who had been in the trunk of the truck) to show up to the illegal spot on the beach they’ve decided on, and he has enough firewood and alcohol to burn the entire city down. “Jesus, E, why’d you bring so much? Was AA having a going out of business sale?” Erasmus blushes.

“Torveld bought it, I didn’t know it was only gonna be us.” The honey blond explains, leaning over to give Laurent a hug and whisper a, “Sorry I’m late,” which Laurent laughs at.

“It’s okay.” Laurent assures as  Aimeric raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Who’s this _Torveld?_ ” He says, dropping his voice a couple of octaves to say the name. Erasmus turns bright red instantly, and Laurent laughs. “A mysterious Russian lover, perhaps?” Aimeric puts on a thick accent and tries to make his expression tougher. Vannes giggles at Erasmus’ embarrassment.

“ _Guys._ ” Erasmus whines. “ _Stop._ He’s really nice and he’s, like—” Erasmus turns red again. “He’s…”

“Oh, my God!” Aimeric giggles. “He’s fucking _hung!”_ Erasmus nods and buries his head in his hands as Laurent howls with laughter. Vannes is about to make a remark, probably about making sure his dick wasn’t upside down, when Nikandros and the rest of the art majors come down the path and find their way to the secluded spot. Aimeric had compiled the firewood together, and he looked between the newcomers impatiently.

“Lighter?” He suggests, like he shouldn’t have had to say anything at all. Makedon pulls one out, and it’s old school, red, white and blue. Aimeric shakes his head and brings a branch to the small flame, giving it a second so it could catch fire before throwing it in with the rest of the sticks. He repeats it a couple of times before the real bonfire starts, then holds his hand out for Erasmus to hand him a bottle of something.

“You shouldn’t do that.” Nikandros interjects, from where he’s seated, with Vannes’ feet on his lap. Aimeric makes a semi-disgusted look in his direction before drenching the fire in alcohol. It flares up immediately, and Aimeric looks a little bit like the devil in the glow. Laurent voices this comparison and is met with a swift middle finger.

It’s simple, now, Damen thinks. Laurent is next to him, in booty shorts and a crop top, and all his friends, old and new, are surrounding him, making him warm despite the chill from the lake. Laurent laughs at something and reaches into his bag, pulling out a thing of marshmallows. The whole circle erupts in cheers and Laurent offers the first one to Damen. Their fingers touch when Damen grabs it, and he still feels the same buzz he had felt when he had first seen Laurent all that time ago.

They play never have I ever, which gets Laurent labeled as the “Freak of the Weak,” and makes Aimeric laugh so hard water comes out his nose.

(“I don’t drink.” Aimeric had said pointedly at Makedon when he tried the same thing he had done to Laurent at Nik’s party. Laurent stiffens, like he’s ready to jump in, but the moment passes and everything keeps going as easily as before.)

“With no lube, Laurent?!” Vannes exclaims, and even Erasmus is sniggering into his hand at Laurent’s misfortune. “You’re, like, a super bottom. You know that?”

“King of the Gays.” Erasmus interjects between gasps for air. Laurent is so red Damen hardly recognizes him. He had forgotten, somewhere along the way, that everything could be so simple.

—

Laurent’s surprise is just like Laurent— breathtaking. Even Aimeric is quieted in it’s presence, staring in awe at what was in front of them.

The top of Vere Industries tower overlooks their whole city. The people look like ants and the cars are whizzing by so fast all Damen sees is the colors they leave behind. From here, they can even see the highway into the next city over, and it’s beautiful. The lights of their city build a map of a world, to them, and Damen has never seen anything this religious.

Erasmus points excitedly at an apartment complex by the lit up nightclub downtown. “That’s my house!” He exclaims, and everyone else follows suit, pointing and laughing and recounting all the lives they had lived. Damen can’t speak. It’s strange.

He had just finished his _senior_ art showcase. What was left? Graduation?

Damen faces the map of what had been his entire world for eighteen years and, despite his friends cheering in the background, he’s never felt more alone. Laurent comes up behind him after a couple minutes, wraps his arms around Damen’s waist and buries his face into Damen’s broad shoulders. “Laurent.” Damen starts, but he doesn’t know what else to say. “It’s quiet.” He finally decides. He feels Laurent nod into his shirt.

“It’s quiet. It’s okay.” Damen doesn’t know when he started to cry.

_

They decide it’s best to sleep there that night, because the buses had stopped running and none of them were too keen on driving. Aimeric, who had been here before, when they were younger, finds the blankets in the abandoned break room and comes back with them and the pillows from every decorative couch in the old sitting room.

“There was a refrigerator, but it was empty.” He notes, rubbing his stomach.

“We just ate.” Vannes says, giggling a little.

“All this cityscape,” Aimeric gestures at the huge glass window that had replaced an outward wall, which they were all still staring at. “It’s making me hungry again.” Laurent rolls his eyes. His heels are discarded in a pile of other unnecessary clothes in the corner (which, for Makedon, had meant everything but his underwear.), and he staggers to his feet and reaches out his hand for Damen. The older boy furrows his eyebrows together.

“There’s vending machines downstairs.” Laurent says, like he was stating the obvious. Damen laughs and grabs his hand, almost pulling Laurent down with his weight as he jumped up. “C’mon.” Laurent says, engaging Damen in another outside pinky hand hold as they left the office they were calling home and headed for the elevators.

They don’t talk, in the darkness, and Laurent hums a French song under his breath while deciding what to get from one of the various machines. Damen had been in charge of drinks, but he was distracted by how Laurent looked.

He doesn’t know if it’s the harsh colors of the vending machine against Laurent’s skin, or his hair, let down from a bun to a high ponytail, or his lips, tucked under his teeth as he deliberated, but Laurent looks like love.

Damen had, of course, studied color theory, and he doesn’t know any way to describe the way Laurent looks next to him besides yellow. Like he had the sun living inside of him.

The shorts didn’t hurt, either.

Laurent looks at him, suddenly, a bit of humor in his expression. “What?” He asks, in the same way Damen had all that time ago as he drew on the sidewalk at the park. Their first date.

Damen is lifting him up and pressing him against the vending machine before he can stop himself. Laurent kisses him back eagerly, desperately, gripping Damen’s jaw like its driftwood in a freezing sea. Damen moans something under his breath as he palms Laurent’s ass, which was partially exposed from his shorts riding up. His legs, small and scarred from years of jumps gone wrong, are around Damen’s waist and his fingers fumble with his zipper as Damen begins to plant sloppy kisses up and down his pale neck, leaving purple marks everywhere his lips land. Laurent makes a little sound, and Damen smiles.

“Shut up.” Laurent announces before he finally undoes the button to Damen’s jeans.

_

They come back with Laurent’s ponytail a little lower and a pile of snacks. Aimeric raises an eyebrow. “Was there a line?” He’s about to ask what took so long when Laurent makes an obscene gesture and Aimeric pales.

“You’re so fucking _nasty!”_ He exclaims, laughing and covering his mouth.

(He looks nice, Laurent thinks. He looks healthy and happy.

Somewhere in there, there’s a promise that Laurent will never let Aimeric stare down the barrel of another gun.)

Vannes is shaking her head and chuckling, her torso flopped on top of Erasmus’ in some form of cuddling. Erasmus doesn’t seem to mind. “I expected this from Laurent but _Damen._ ” Erasmus jokes, tutting at the brown boy. Damen blushes even harder. Laurent doesn’t seem to mind at all.

“You’re no longer Freak of the Week.” Nikandros interjects. They’re all lying in front of the glass window, the city calmed. Laurent doesn’t have to check the time to know midnight has come and gone. “You’re Freak of the Century.” Now, Laurent pales.

Damen laughs.

He had forgotten how simple it all could be.

_

The first time Laurent posts Damen on his main page, it’s a two pictures.

One is the two of them after Damen’s graduation, Laurent looking up at Damen in admiration as Damen stared at the camera, a giant cardboard cutout of Damen’s face in Laurent’s pale hands. (There’s a few more in Laurent’s camera roll, Damen knows, like the one where he’s looking at Laurent like he’s all that matters, or the one where both of them are sticking their tongues out, or that one Laurent had been so embarrassed to take, where Damen is kissing him like he just come home from war.)

The other is that picture he always posts, of the cat in the circle of knives, except the knives are tagged as “my affection,” and “my trauma,” and, Damen’s personal favorite, “my unconditional love and support.” The cat is, of course, Damen.

 

**loml**

_sorry none of your family came to your graduation_

 

**dami**

_what do you mean_

_you were right there_

 

Laurent regards the message for a long moment, and, for the first time, closes his eyes to retrace his steps because he thinks all this happiness will tear him apart if he doesn’t.

He has more love in him than he knows what to do with.

—

The end comes sooner than Damen expects it to.

He’s at Laurent’s house, laid out on the couch like it was his own, the heat of the summer left outside of the beautiful mansion. Laurent comes back from the kitchen with a pale face and Damen sits up immediately, leaving whatever comment he had ready in his throat. “What’s wrong?” He asks, softly, because Laurent got this way, sometimes. Sometimes he forgot who he was and where he was and told Damen things he shouldn’t. But this look is different. His eyes don’t look far away. They look almost painfully close, instead.

“It’s from ABT.” Damen sits up straighter. This should be good news. Being sixteen and getting letters from ABT, that should be something good. But Laurent looks heartbroken as he stares at the paper in his hand. “They want me to join their studio company.” Damen lets out a loud cheer. Laurent smiles, a little.

“That’s amazing news, Laurent!” Damen screams, pulling his boyfriend into a tight hug. “It’s all you’ve talked about since—”

“New York, Damen.” Laurent breathes out. Everything comes crashing down. “It’s in New York, remember?”

The world starts shaking.

Damen had planned this differently, seen this differently. He was supposed to go to art school in Chicago, which wasn’t that far away. He could come back on weekends, for Christmas and Valentine’s Day, and him and Laurent could figure it out. Even if they couldn’t, the dream meant that they would have more time. That Damen didn’t have to think about the end.

“Damen.” Laurent says, and his voice breaks. The other boy doesn’t answer. “Can you be here? With me, right now?” And then Damen hears the worst words Laurent de Vere can say to say to you, a sure sign of the end. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Laurent sobs, and Damen wraps his arms around him like a reflex.

“Don’t be.” He whispers into Laurent’s loose curls, letting his own tears catch there instead of moving to wipe them off. Laurent cries harder.

_

Two weeks later, Laurent’s room is packed up and he sits on the edge of his bed, looking around gingerly at all the cardboard boxes. He hears a light rapping on his door frame and looks up to see Auguste.

(Nicaise had come in, earlier, after being hit with the reality of it all.

“I’ll still be your brother if I’m in New York.” Laurent says softly into the younger boy’s soft hair. He kisses the top of his head and they don’t move for an hour.)

His older brother looks at the boxes, too. In fact, he looks everywhere but Laurent for a minute or so, before taking in a deep breath and looking his brother in the eye. And, usually, Auguste crying doesn’t affect Laurent, because Auguste cries when the supermarket has his favorite chips in stock, but there’s something different in his eyes this time. He’s studying Laurent as Laurent had studied Damen the night before, in the gentle glow of Laurent’s last bonfire. He’s studying him like this is goodbye.

 _Because this is a goodbye,_ Laurent reminds himself. _This is a goodbye._

Auguste sits down slowly on the bed, and it creaks under his weight. He opens and closes his mouth, looking for the perfect nickname for this moment. His younger brother waits, expecting Bugs or Wilmer or maybe even Rudolph (a retired nickname that only came out once or twice a year), and letting the silence swallow him. Maybe Auguste would choose— “Laurent.” His brother says, and Laurent pales at the way Auguste lets it out.

Auguste saying his real name.

That was a goodbye.

_

Laurent promises to call Vannes the moment he lands, and Aimeric texts him as he makes it to his gate.

**aim messenger**

_I got caught up at the therapist’s office_

_I couldn’t get out of it_

**heauxrent**

_it’s okay._

**aim messenger**

_You better get me the fucking best Christmas gift from one of those NYC shops_

_If I don’t see a gift bag the literal second you get home we’re fucking fighting_

**heauxrent**

_i love you, too._

Laurent gets on a plane to his new life wearing a sweatshirt he stole from his ex-boyfriend and gripping a bear Erasmus had slid to him the night before.

(“I know you’re scared of planes.” The other soloist had said, smiling warmly even though you could hear his tears. “I know you’re scared.”

Laurent had hugged him so tight, he contemplated never letting go.)

He grips the armrests in first class tight, and, when he finally falls asleep, he thinks of the last things he said to Damen.

“You’ll call?” Damen had asked.

“I promise.” Laurent lied.

Damen had smiled like he saw right through Laurent. He probably did. “Just don’t,” Laurent wiped away the older boy’s tear. “Don’t burn your new house down, okay?”

For the first time in what had felt like forever, Laurent laughed.

_

 

**EPILOGUE**

**:::**

The shrill scream of a director is broadcast into the air of a theater, and the intern in front of her shrinks.

“She’s _what?!_ ” The middle aged woman yells again, and, taking pity on the frightened intern, a choreographer steps in.

“She’s got a fracture in her shin. She’s out for a season, at least.” The man explains, and the director puts her head in her hands exasperatedly.

“This is a _literal_ disaster. We go on in a week!” She whisper-yells at the choreographer. He’s about to comfort her when the intern finally speaks up.

“I know someone who knows the part.”

Both of the workers look up and study the intern’s face, with varying levels of distress apparent on their face as the choreographer takes a wary step towards the youngest one in the group.

“His name’s Laurent de Vere.” The director groans.

“It’s a _girl’s—”_

“No one in this company can do it better than Laurent. I promise.” The intern insists, looking between the choreographer and the director earnestly.

“Jord,” The choreographer says to the brown haired boy slowly. “Where is Laurent now?”

Jord beams.

(“Thanks.” Laurent whispers to Jord before he goes on stage. “Hey, are you busy this Christmas?” Jord furrows his eyebrows together and shakes his head no.

“Why?”

“I promised a friend I’d bring him back something pretty from New York.” Laurent winks before changing his demeanor completely and dancing on stage.)

_

 

“Did you hear about that ballerina in New York?” A girl with baby bangs and a too expensive backpack says in Damen’s Tuesday class. He usually only drops in for a second to drop off his finished work and pick up the assignment for next week, but this conversation makes him sit down behind the girl.

“No?” The boy next to her answers, still mainly focused on his own work.

“Get this. _Seventeen_ and already a prima.” The boy raises an eyebrow, and makes an impressed look. “And? He’s a boy.” At this, the boy stops painting and looks incredulously at the girl as if she had done it herself. She nods as if to say _I know,_ and continues. “ _And_ he’s totally gonna be in record books as, like, the youngest prima ever.”

“You’re gonna be in record books as the girl who took the longest to graduate art school if you keep fucking around, Lykaios.” The boy answers, pointing at the blonde’s blank canvas.

“Fuck off, Adrastus.” She answers, picking up her palette.

Damen leaves and turns the corner.

He gets all the way to his dorm before he realizes he’s so proud he’s crying. He thinking about calling Laurent.

Instead, he pushes his curly hair back with a headband he had stolen from the dancer all that time ago and begins to sketch.

_

 

Laurent is on display, again, except this time he knows it.

(“You should call him, Lau.” Auguste had said, the noise of Nicaise’s baseball game in the background. Laurent snorts.

“And say what?” There’s a long pause, and, finally, Auguste sighs.

“I just don’t want you to feel alone, out there.”

“I’m nineteen, now, Auggie.” Laurent says softly. “I can be alone, sometimes.” His brother had laughed at that.)

Damen had painted him, this time, instead of sculpting him.

(In the paper last year, Laurent had read about Damen being offered quite a bit of money to sell the _Tiny Dancer_ statues. He had said no.

Laurent almost called him, that time.)

He’s soft in the painting, all blue eyes and sunset skintones. Laurent almost cries, looking at it, but then someone clears their throat behind him.

(“Another amazing show, Damen,” The old man had said.

“Thank you, Charls.” Damen had answered warmly, shaking his wrinkled hand.

“And how you can interact with the boy in the painting.” Charls bunches his fingers together and then kisses them, to indicate perfection. “Truly some of your best.”

Damen had raced to the back of the gallery as fast as he could through the throng of people and came to face the back of a long haired blond.

High waisted pants, heels, and a cropped sweatshirt. _Who else could it be?,_ He thought hopefully.)

The blond turns around.

Damen hears bells.

“Hello, lover.” Laurent whispers.


	4. pt. iv: towards a secret sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I just? Love him?” Laurent laughs a little at how ridiculous he must look, in full show makeup, his hair still snatched back tightly, with a couple of tears coming down his face.
> 
> “I’m sure everyone at home can tell he means the world to you.” Laurent laughs.
> 
> “I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank y'all for sticking with me, i know this took forever cndnd but hmu on tumblr @damiianos with any questions and i absolutely love reviews! it makes me really happy to know what y'all think and i wanna thank every person who's said anything kind about my writing, you have no idea what it means to me, i thought it was trash when i posted it, and that no one was going to pay it any mind but y'all truly proved me wrong. thank you so much.

_"this is love: to fly **toward a secret sky** , to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment...to take a step without feet."_  
 _-_ rumi

\---

Laurent’s chest is heaving when the microphone is shoved into his face. Some part of him twitches with annoyance, but he smiles at the reporter anyway.

“Laurent! That was a stunning performance, exactly what we’d come to expect!” She praises, smiling through red lips at Laurent. The blond nods appreciatively, still trying to catch his breath. “How does it feel to be performing prima roles at only twenty-two years old?”

“Twenty. Twenty one this summer.” Laurent corrects quickly, letting his eyes look kind when the reporter tries not to look embarrassed. “And it’s been great, I feel so honored that our amazing head choreographer, Herode, believes in me and trusts me to carry productions like this. I want to close every season feeling as good, and as tired–” The reporter laughs and Laurent takes the break to breathe in. “As I do right now.” A stagehand, who Laurent makes a note to thank personally later, wipes sweat from his forehead. His skirt is brushing against his calf, and the itch Laurent had noted at costume fittings had turned into burning, as his gentle skin brushed against it for two and a half hours. The reporter smiles at that, too, and Laurent can tell from the way she’s standing–neck long, arms extended, back straight–that she had been a dancer, once. She misses it. Laurent thinks of when he, at sixteen, had thought about quitting, and sees a reason to be glad he didn’t.

  
“Now that de Vere is such a household name, for reasons other than business, are you a little reluctant to change it at your coming ceremonies with your fiance, and world renowned artist, Damianos Akielon?” Laurent laughs, and shakes his head.

  
“He’s a very big deal, he's a brilliant artist, and also a giant, but he’s a huge softie, and I just wanted to do something really sweet for him, so I told him the day after he proposed that I planned on changing my name.” She nods, smiles a reporter’s smile.

  
“So, when’s the wedding? Any plans after?” Laurent smiles, warmly.

  
“Next week, we’re driving back to our hometown tonight and then…” Laurent pauses, feels something strong build in his throat. The reporter smiles again, but this time it’s real, and she looks touched. “Um, and then we’re getting married?” Laurent tries to shrug, but there are tears welling in his eyes he’s sure everyone can see. “I really hadn’t thought about it that much, but it’s so...soon. I just? Love him?” Laurent laughs a little at how ridiculous he must look, in full show makeup, his hair still snatched back tightly, with a couple of tears coming down his face.

  
“I’m sure everyone at home can tell he means the world to you.” Laurent laughs.

  
“I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”

  
-

  
The rest of the interview is pretty much boring, and when the camera turns off, Laurent shakes the reporter’s hand–Halvik, she had said. “Really, congrats. You’re a beautiful performer.” Halvik says, and Laurent nods appreciatively before walking to his dressing room.

  
Nicaise is the first to say something to him, a call that Laurent picks up while he’s taking his show makeup off with a baby wipe. Laurent can hear the rowdy baseball team practicing around him. “Saint Laurent,” His little brother drawls, feigning endearment. Laurent can imagine him clutching his small, annoying chest dramatically and sighing. “That really touched my heart.”

  
“Fuck the shut,” Laurent fumbles, as he falls to the ground trying to pull on his warm up shoes. Nicaise giggles and Laurent, in yet another uncharacteristic swell of softness, smiles to himself. “I miss you.” Laurent says, and Nicaise stops laughing.

  
“I’ll see you at the wedding.” Nicaise replies, in the same way Laurent used to answer Auguste when he would say how much he missed him after spending weekends away on business. Then, quieter, so his baseball friends don’t hear; “Love you, Lau.” Laurent allows himself to smile, a little, in the privacy of his dressing room.

  
“Love you too, Nicky. Now, go hit some bases or whatever, I don’t need to get in trouble for you fucking around during practice.” The blond can almost hear his little brother roll his eyes.

  
After Laurent hangs up, he checks and sees that the group chat has lit up.

**_United Noodles / Erasmus Protection Unit_ **

  
**aim messenger**  
_Laurent got soft on TV, y’all  
_

**baby vee**  
_we know ur gay but….tone it down a little jeez  
this is heterophobic_

 **eraser**  
_it was cute !!!!!!!!!  
(i’m so proud!!!!!!!!!!!)_

 **st. laurent**  
_once again, erasmus is the only one i can trust. shut the hell ur mouths,_

Auguste is last, and it’s just a Tweet that says:

  
**@okayauguste: #tbt to when Bugs told me he didn’t believe in love lol**

  
Laurent opens the back door and wraps himself up tighter in the sweater he had thrown over his sweatshirt and tights.

  
**@stlauurent: _@okayauguste_  please delete this nickname from the face of the actual earth**

He almost runs into a brick wall laughing at himself, except when he reaches out to catch himself he’s met with warmth. “You know,” He says, fondly. “You’re really too large for your own good.” Damen laughs and Laurent pulls him down by one broad shoulder to kiss his dirty cheek. “And you should wash the paint off your face before you go out, I told you that’s bad for–” Laurent is cut off by his own scream as Damen shoves a snowball down his back. “Damianos!” Laurent gasps, and Damen is already sprinting across the parking lot.

  
Laurent, a smile on his face and a chill sticking to his spine, packs the snow on the ground together and chases, using a beaten up car as cover when Damen throws another.

  
“You can surrender anytime!” Damen calls as Laurent tries to keep his steps wuiet in the crunching snow. “Wouldn’t want to hurt your delicate feet.” Laurent gasps and pops up, launching a snow ball at Damen’s neck and crouching back down when he sees it land, giggling into his hand quietly. Damen feigns horror, crying out, “By my own husband!”

  
Laurent laughs again, louder, and one of the other dancers in the lot looks at him strangely. He sobers up and waves as the girl begins to walk away. “I’m not your husband!” Laurent yells back.

  
“Yet.” Damen answers fondly, his booming voice filling in all the crevices of Laurent’s world. “I would like to kiss you.” Damen is out in the open, now, and looking for Laurent behind the rows of parked cars.

  
“Well, I’ll have to speak to the council about this.” Laurent calls. Damen follows his voice, so the blond moves closer the pick up truck on the edge of the parking lot. He hears the older man’s heavy steps get closer, and makes a mad dash for the passenger seat, laughing sourly as Damen jumps into his way and swoops him up and over his shoulder. “The council didn’t approve this!” Laurent yells into the fabric on Damen’s back, his laughter swallowing his words. Damen’s arms feel like home. Sometimes, they feel better than home. “Will you be the obnoxious when we’re married?” Laurent finally asks, resigned, as he’s thrown into the passenger seat.

  
“Yes, of course.” Damen answers simply, as he steps into the truck’s cabin. “I’ll only address you as Mr. Akielon and honey bun.” Laurent scrunches up his nose in distaste and Damen laughs.

  
The streets start lulling by, one piece of the city that never sleeps dripping into each other peacefully. “How many hours to home?” Laurent asks, his blue eyes already half closed, his small body tucked into a crevice between the divider and his seat, and Damen’s brown hand in his.

  
“Fourteen.” Damen whispers, reaching to tuck Laurent into the blanket he had draped over himself. The sun had set a while ago, so it’s just him and Damen, in their old car, like it was always supposed to be.

  
(“Sorry I didn’t call.” Laurent had said into Damen’s chest, his tears ignored in the older man’s desperate grip. The gallery is empty and their silence has been abandoned.

  
“Sorry I didn’t come looking for you.” Damen replies, and the weight of all the time they had wasted is heavy in both their stomachs.)

  
“You’re like home.” Laurent mumbles to himself as he drifts, gently, to sleep. The freeway and the future both find space to stretch out before them.


	5. pt. v: the bridge between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> damen and laurent tie the knot, laurent does some reflecting, they eat noodles, and there are bells everywhere. not necessarily in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew so there are definitely some trigger warnings in this, but i just kind of realized i really missed this universe, and these characters the way that i wrote them, so i had to revisit them, and also, some parts of this story really made me cringe because i was two years younger when i wrote it, and now i'm more cultured than ever so here go my tour de france or however det shit go, trigger warnings at the end notes. also the poem is "backwards" by warsan shire.

_"love is **the bridge between you** and everything.”_   
_\- rumi_

_\---_

When they get into town, Damen has to shake Laurent awake, and they both get a strange feeling of deja vu as Damen helps Laurent of the cabin of the pickup truck. Almost as soon as Laurent’s feet touch the ground, he’s wrapped up in a hug, Vannes clinging to his shirt. “ _Lauuurent.”_ She squeals, in the same way she had when Laurent had sent her a picture of his engagement ring while they were on the phone. Laurent just hugs her back, until she steps back and puts a hand on her chest, shock all over her face. Laurent furrows his eyebrows. “Oh, my God,” She says. “You’re even uglier than before.” Laurent rolls his eyes.

(He remembers the day he met Vannes. He was six and he had to be home soon, but he was determined to teach himself how to swing. Vannes was on the same mission, and together, the two of them went high enough to make Auguste run across the playground and stop them both, and they had both just laughed like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened.

They hadn’t known, then, what pain was waiting for them on the other side of childhood. Laurent remembers Vannes, wrapped in her hijab, at her Baba’s funeral. “ _The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.”_ She had said, after she had torn her scarf off outside the mosque, her and her sister exchanging the harshest words they can find while their mother pulls on Vannes’ forearm. Her sister is saying God struck their father down because of Vannes. “ _He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life; that’s how we bring Dad back.”_ She chokes on the words. “ _I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole. We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear, your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.”_ Laurent is always the ‘your’ in her poem. He is always the yin to her yang. “ _I can make us loved, just say the word. Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,”_ This time, Laurent’s breath catches. He doesn’t move to stop her. “ _I can write the poem and make it disappear. Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass, mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place, maybe she keeps the baby. Maybe we’re okay kid? I’ll rewrite this whole life,”_ She pauses for the first time, takes a deep breath, and presses the necklace her Baba had given her with her own name written in Arabic to hard into her collarbone the mark will be there for days. “ _And this time there’ll be so much love, you won’t be able to see beyond it.”_ Then, she stares at the wall for a long moment, before addressing Laurent. “It’s called Backwards,” She explains.

“ _You won’t be able to see beyond it,”_ She starts again, “ _I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love. Maybe we’re okay kid, maybe she keeps the baby. Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place, Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass. I can write the poem and make it disappear, give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent, I can make us loved, just say the word. Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums, we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear. I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole, that’s how we bring Dad back.”_ She sobs into her hands, and Laurent holds her as tight as he can muster. He’s still collecting his bruises, but she doesn’t know that now.

Hours later, she’ll say, her eyes trained on the nothingness of Laurent’s pitch black room, “ _He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life. The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.”_ )

Damen laughs behind them, and Vannes throws her arms open. “Damen, Damen, come here!” She says, pulling Damen into a hug that Damen, of course, gladly accepts. Laurent takes the chance to grab a piece of luggage out of the back, which Damen would never let him do if he wasn’t distracted, and starts walking towards the front door of his old house.

As soon as he walks in, Erasmus waves at him excitedly and crosses the room, pulling Laurent in _another_ hug. Laurent not minding all of this physical interaction is really taxing on his mental health. Sometimes he aches for the familiarity of being uncomfortable, but cannot make it manifest. “I’m _so_ excited!” Erasmus exclaims.

(He remembers meeting Erasmus. They’re in a hospital room at sunset and Laurent can still feel the cold of the hotel floor as the officers pulled them all out of their rooms and onto the ground. Erasmus is tearing up the same piece of paper until his fingers have gone all red, and Laurent has been pulling at his hospital bracelet until it became a thin band. When they finally look at each other, after the nurse checks both of them again, they recognize one another.

Laurent remembers the way the knife had felt in his hands as he stabbed it through Govart’s neck. He remembers the heat of the blade as he burned his Uncle’s initials into Guion’s thigh. “We can match,” Laurent had said, and every part of his body was shaking with all the anger a thirteen year old could muster. Erasmus has the same marks, and Aimeric, and Laurent thanks God every day Nicaise does not. He remembers the face he had turned to when it was all finished, the sandy blonde hair that had run to call the police when Laurent asked.

He stares at it now, the sounds of the hospital surrounding them. “Hi,” The boy starts. “I’m Erasmus.”

“I’m Laurent,” Laurent answers, even though he doesn’t know why.

“This food sucks.” Laurent almost laughs.

Auguste throws a party at their house when Erasmus is adopted. Laurent and Erasmus, they never talk about it. They tell everyone they met at a party in seventh grade.)

“Laurent?” A familiar voice yells down the steps, and Auguste seems to teleport downstairs, he appears in front of Laurent so fast. Laurent feels himself being tugged into _yet another_ hug as he rolls his eyes at his brother. “Oh, you’ve finally returned from war!” Auguste jokes, but he’s really, actually crying, and Laurent supposes that, in some weird way, he has come home from a war.

“You’re so dramatic,” Laurent replies, and he reaches out for Nicaise when he pops up next to the two of them a moment later.

(Nicky is so old, now, his voice deep and the stubble on his face rubbing against Laurent’s soft skin when they hug. Laurent remembers when Nicaise had cried for days when his Adam’s apple appeared.

Proud isn’t a big enough word. They all have baseball caps and drawstring backpacks and water bottles and sweatshirts from some Big 10 school Nicaise had committed to out in California. He wants to be the first openly gay man in the MLB, and he wants to marry a hockey player and convince him to give his Stanley Cup ring to Auguste. It’s on his vision board. Laurent just wants to hold him, wants him to shrink back into a fourteen year old boy who still had to look to his older brothers for everything.

“Auguste quit hockey for us,” Nicaise had said one day, quietly. It’s true. Auguste had resigned from his Big 10 school somewhere out in California and came running home, holding onto Laurent, and, as soon as he met him, holding on Nicaise, too. There are many ways Auguste outshines the sun. “I want him to know it wasn’t for nothing.”

Pride isn’t a big enough feeling.)

“Y’all are so ugly,” Nicaise says, pulling himself loose of the group hug and straightening out his sweatshirt. Laurent rolls his eyes just as Damen taps him on the shoulder.

“I’m gonna go see Nik and everybody.” Damen explains, kissing Laurent’s forehead. Vannes whistles in the background, but Laurent ignores her.

Instead, he leans in close and whispers, “Don’t stay in that big house all alone, mon ours.” Damen smiles sadly and nods, before waving everyone goodbye. “See you tomorrow, Damianos.”

Damen leans down to kiss Laurent again in the doorway. “See you tomorrow, Mr. de Vere.” Laurent watches him climb into the driver’s seat, and looks at the red pickup truck drive away until he can’t anymore. The blond turns around to face his family after the door closes.

“So...anyone wanna watch House Bunny?” Everyone in the room groans.

-

“Are you still with Mac and Cheese boy?” Laurent asks later, while they sit on Auguste’s bed, their eldest brother asleep between them. Nicaise laughs.

“No, turns out that’s not the best basis for a lifelong relationship,” Laurent snorts. “But the last time I went to go visit UCLA, there was this boy in my tour group who I made fall in love with me in, like, 47 minutes.” Nicaise sips some more of his tea, pride radiating off of him.

“And _that’s_ a good basis for a relationship?” Laurent says, trying not to smile too wide. Nicaise laughs again, soft enough to not wake Auguste.

(“All he does is worry about us,” Nicaise had said over the phone a couple of weeks ago. “He barely sleeps, the old dummy.”)

“Who cares?” Nicaise offers, setting down his tea on the nightstand closest to him. “I’m seventeen. If I met the love of my life right now, he would hate me.”

“As he should,” Laurent jokes, and Nicaise throws a pillow into his face.

“Everyone’s not you and Damen.” Nicaise says, picking at his nails. On instinct, Laurent reaches over for the nail clippers on the nightstand closest to him, but Nicaise shakes his head, his deep brown curls tossing as he opens his hands so Laurent can see his palms.

The scars have all healed.

“Damen and I aren’t even me and Damen,” Laurent answers, putting the clippers back with a pang of something in his chest. “We broke up for three years, didn’t start dating again for two whole weeks, and now I’m getting married to someone I’ve technically only been dating for three months of my adult life.” Nicaise laughs at that. Laurent’s life has always been a source of comedy for him.

“But you love him.”

Laurent nods, and looks at his little brother for a drawn out moment. “I do.” He pauses. “But I wouldn’t be able to if I hadn’t loved you and Auguste so much first.” That makes Nicaise smile a little, one of the ones that makes him look away. It’s more to himself than Laurent, anyway.

“My wedding’s gonna be 1000x better than yours.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

-

Laurent had insisted on the smallest wedding possible. The thought of Damen’s side not being as full as his made him want to curl up in a ball.

Aimeric comes in the day of the wedding, Jord in tow behind him. He walks into the room Laurent’s getting ready in with his suit already on, and Laurent just wants to fall apart when he sees him approaching the reflection of the mirror. “Well, look who finally showed up.” Laurent says, but his voice is full of something.

(He remembers meeting Aimeric. They’re the hallway of a courthouse, and Laurent’s stomach is shaking. Auguste has been telling him everything will be okay, but Laurent feels the knife heavy in his hands. Laurent is twelve and the boy who stands in front of him can’t be much older, olive skin and deep, red hair. Aimeric opens his mouth and then closes it, before asking, “Can I sit here?” He motions to the bench Laurent was sitting on. Laurent nods and moves over. It starts there.

Laurent offers Aimeric the piece of chocolate he hadn’t been able to stomach earlier, and Aimeric takes it without caution. Everything starts there.

He remembers finding Aimeric’s body. His mother had been working so many late shifts and Laurent knew his Father was trying to force his way back into their lives — not that Loyse was having _any_ of that — and Aimeric had become...overwhelmed somewhere along the way. Laurent’s pale hands are covered in blood as he fumbles to call an ambulance, his thumbs pushing the hair out of Aimeric’s face.)

“I don’t run on the white man’s time,” Aimeric replies, but he’s rushing across the room to hug Laurent. They always hold onto each other so tight. They know neither of them expected to be this old. “You look kinda cute, is today a big day or something?” Aimeric jokes, and Laurent punches him in the arm, which only makes everyone laugh harder.

-

Laurent says his vows in Greek and French, which is the first time he’s ever admitted to learning the language for Damen all that time ago. He wants to tell himself his eyes feel heavy with tears because he’s getting all the pronunciations right, but Damen’s solid hand around his, the look in Damen’s eye— they make that lie impossible. Auguste is crying, too, loudly, and blows his nose into a handkerchief behind Laurent. Laurent and Damen roll their eyes, and Damen reaches out to moves a loose curl back into place on Laurent’s head. He hadn’t straightened it, because Damen liked it better curly. Damen’s hand lingers on Laurent’s face and Laurent starts to stumble through his words, because he’s so overwhelmed with how much he is in love. In love with himself, in love with Damen, with ballet and his friends and maybe the world, in love with the scars on his stomach and the burns on his thigh and he’s just going to fall apart right here, on the altar. Damen laughs softly. Vannes lets out an _awwww_ in the crowd, and Laurent turns and tells her to mind her business.

“You keep me safe from thunderstorms, and you love me enough for the both of us when I can’t find the courage to,” Damen laughs at that, but he’s crying, the big softie. “You make me want to go back in time and tell the world to be kinder to you, because you’re the best person I’ve ever met.” Then, in English, “I love you.” Then, in French, “I love you.”

Damen kisses him as hard as he ever has when Nik says it’s time to.

-

“Laurent.” Damen says sternly. The blond groans in response, shaking his usually elegant limbs flimsily.

“I’m _bored._ ” He almost whines, spreading out on the dirty ground of Damen’s studio in their apartment. “When I signed on for the dick I didn’t know I had to take the boring parts, too.” He jokes, putting his hands over his face and letting the light from outside their home swallow him.

“You knew.” Damen says, warmth dripping from every crevice of his words.

“Is it too late for an annulment?” Laurent replies, before Damen moves from around his easel to stare at him. Laurent laughs.

“Please, Lau, stand up so I can finish sketching before—”

The door creaks open and Laurent pops up immediately, opening his arms for Theo to run into. The blond groans under the weight of the growing boy, and Damen sighs, putting down his pen and stepping from around his easel. “Hello, angel.” Damen drinks up the scene as best he can without reaching out and disrupting it. “Are you bigger than yesterday, mon petit prince?” Laurent asks the three year old, as if he’s one of Laurent’s colleagues. Theo laughs and shakes his head, his hair flopping.

Theo is lighter than Kastor, because of Jokaste, and, when Damen looks at him next to Laurent, he can almost see a resemblance. When Damen steps into the light, smiling, Theo turns to look at him, clapping his hands excitedly. “Theios!” He almost screams, and Laurent flinches away from the sudden noise in his ears.

Damen thinks about when him and Theo had first met, Jokaste still a teenager and Theo bundled up in her arms. “I’m gonna take care of you,” Damen had said as they walked towards the exit of the art gallery, and he had meant it. Now, Laurent shakes him out of the memory.

“Tell your theios what you told me.” Laurent encourages Theo, and Theo smiles.

“I love you!” Theo screams, because all the men in Damen’s family are loud, and Laurent beams at Damen.

“He _loves_ me.” Laurent says proudly, before turning to take Theo into the kitchen. Damen feels powerless to do anything but let them go, all the love in his heart paralyzing him.

-

There’s a noise in the kitchen the next night, the sound of glass hitting the floor, and Damen jumps awake. “What was there? Fuck, that. What was that?” He whispers, and Laurent groans in response, rolling over on his pillow/ “Laurent.” Damen prods, shaking his husband.

“I’m going to divorce you,” Laurent replies, just as something else crashes against the kitchen floor. Now, Laurent sits up, suddenly acutely aware that they live in Manhattan, and, because he’s much too tired to investigate the noise himself, he clutches onto Damen’s arm to look like the damsel. “Go see what it is.” Laurent coaxes. Damen swallows and nods, and Laurent has to engage every muscle in his body so he doesn’t roll his eyes. It’s probably just their cat, or their dog, or the snake Laurent had brought home two months ago (much to Damen’s dismay).

Damen kisses Laurent hard and climbs out the bed, grabbing a piece of wood that he was going to use in his next piece and creeping down the hallway of their apartment. He tightens his hand around the makeshift weapon and round the corner into the kitchen. He drops the stick as soon as he sees what was going on, and reaches out to scoop up the child in his arms. “Oh, Theo,” Damen groans, letting himself relax into the sleepiness he felt as he leaned back against the counter, Theo bouncing on his hip.

“I wan’ some noodles,” Theo whines. Damen laughs.

-

“It was Theo,” Damen explains as he climbs back into bed, lifting up his arm so Laurent can slither back under it. He closes his eyes, and, with obvious amusement in his tone, “He wanted some noodles.” Damen doesn’t have to look to know Laurent is nodding solemnly.

“Of course,” He says. “What would he do without his noodles at 2 in the morning?”

“Probably just fall right apart,” Damen replies, equally as solemn. Laurent laughs.

They’re taking care of Theo some nights while Jokaste tries to get her GED, and Laurent doesn’t — _completely_ despite it. Theo is sweet, and wraps all his fingers around one of Laurent’s, and laughs at all of Laurent’s jokes, and likes escargot (even though he always makes a face when Damen reminds him what it is), and Laurent _loves_ him. And, more importantly, he _loves_ Laurent.

(He knows how all the men in Damen’s family tend to disappear from photo albums. He promises himself to never let the same thing happen to Theo.)

While they’re laying there, Laurent traces patterns onto Damen’s chest, and thinks about when he was sixteen. “Sorry about that time I said you weren’t important.”

Instead of laughing, Damen rubs Laurent’s back. “It’s okay, baby.” They sit in silence some more, Laurent closing his eyes but not falling asleep.

“I think I wanna have a baby,” The blond offers next. Damen’s hand freezes and Laurent remembers what he had said in Damen’s bedroom, all those years ago, all those miles ago, all those pieces ago, and adds, “A baby girl.”

Laurent doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Damen beams.

Both of their dreams that night are a little hand, reaching out to ring bells.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: minor character death, some religion, violence, talks of past abuse, mentions of suicide, blood
> 
> thank you guys so much for reading! please leave a comment if you can, i know a lot of u already read this the first time it was published, so thanks if you came back! i don't know if there's more after this because i honestly thought i was done last time too lmfao but we'll see! i added over 10k to the rest of the story too, and fixed some of the more cringeworthy/ugly parts of it, so u can always re read it too! sorry i love attention, jus lmk what u think! thanks sm for reading, again!!!! im kissing all of u mentally xoxo


End file.
